Gatewalker: The Main Quest
by Raven Studios
Summary: The Oblivion Crisis is finally over, but life must go on, and there are those who would gladly exploit an Empire on crumbling foundations. As the burden of duty falls on the shoulders of an unwilling Champion, Ailirah has her work cut out for her.
1. Chapter 1

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. This is just a little slow to get started.

--A--

Chapter One

--A--

Ugh. What. The. Hell?

Waking up was unpleasant to say the least. My head's ringing like a chapel _bell_, and hurts like someone was kicking me in it – oh, wait. That might actually explain a couple things…whoo. Ugh...maybe I was out of line to tell that dumb Orc what he could do with his attitude. It didn't seem like such a bad idea at the time. Going into a bar fight without backup (or my Silent Partner) is now a bad idea. Note to self: be prepared, next time, otherwise you end up in a hurt-box.

Urgh…I rolled over but did not roll out of bed – I rolled harmlessly off the pallet upon which I lay onto the floor proper. Now I know how runaway grapes feel.

Mmm…eh? So I'm not home, or at one of the guildhalls then…so no mom, brother, or extended family's going to come yell at me anytime soon. I groaned and opened my eyes. Ugh. From where I sprawled I immediately realized where I was, and got up quickly. I was in _prison._

Not _jail_.

_Fetching prison_. There's a _big difference_…oh foo…I'm never going to hear the end of it. If I ever see that Orc again, I'm going to...think really hard before I threaten to drop him like a rock and wail on him.

This is why I need to remember _never_ to put my Silent Partner down – people just don't take me seriously as a fighter without it.

Oooh...my head hurts. Ow. Ugh, forget it. Let me just call it a day...

But _prison_? Come on…just a few drinks and a brawl...it was only a little one! What's the world coming to? It's my first…okay, _second _official offense. What happened to three strikes?

I mean, the _first_ involved half the tavern, all my brothers and my _dad_ – so it wasn't _really_ my fault…

Yeah – I have four brothers, all older, all in the Fighter's Guild…and wait! So are _both_ my _parents_ – and so am _I_, as a matter of fact. So you can imagine the kinds of scrapes a girl gets into with four older brothers – and how many dating opportunities she never gets.

I rolled gingerly onto my feet – nothing broken, though I did feel like my ribs were bruised. My Silent Partner's gone – damn, that thing was custom made, too…my dad's going to kick my ass when I have to ask him for a new one.

I sighed, stumbled a little towards the barred door, then leaned on it with another heavy sigh. Can this day get any worse? It's still pretty early…I dunno whether to shout for a guard or let the poor bastards sleep – because face it, if you're stuck down here, it means you've pissed someone off and that someone's not in a forgiving mood. Two words: dead end.

I should have stayed in bed, because that's when the fetcher across the hall started up on me – a Dunmer, I noticed. Ugh – I don't have a problem with Dunmer in general – look at Uncle Modryn. He's bounced me on his knee since I was running around in diapers. He used to babysit before my brothers were of age to be responsible for their baby sister, while my parents were on missions.

"Oh, look, an Imperial in the Imperial Prison. I guess they don't play favorites, do they? Your own kinsmen think you're a piece of human trash. How sad," he baited.

You know, I'm about to make this Dunmer sad. Because short or not, I've got a mean throwing arm and a good eye for distance. He's very lucky, unless I find something to throw at him that I won't need later.

So, four brothers, each with his own endearing bad habits. I just sort of picked one or two from each, as I grew up. The swearing from Rogerik (I'm not good at it, but practice makes perfect), the attitude from Markos (He says 'think like a lion and you'll be like a lion'. Usually, though people just laugh.), the drinking from Brutus (unfortunatly, I've a relatively low tolerance)…picking fights comes from Julius, my second-eldest and favorite brother. Also the head of the Fighter's Guild, once Vilena Donton stepped down. Julius encourages it. I begin think that he only means I should do it when he or one of the others is there to keep a lid on things.

"I bet the guards give you some 'special' treatment before the end." Oh please…let's _not_ start that… "Oh, that's right. You're going to die in here, Imperial! You're going to die!"

"Yeah...and your accent killed me – shut up," I called flatly wobbling back into the cell.

Fetching Dunmer _jekosiit tobr'a s'wit_.

It isn't very comfortable down here, small, but it has a window. I'm far too short to hop up, grab the bars and peer out. The honest truth is, the Dunmer got me wrong, I'm not actually an Imperial…or rather, I'm only half Imperial. Father's a Nord, and the _biggest _bear of a man you can imagine. He's huge – they call him 'Einar the Hammer', even we the family do when we're working. He used to be a normal Fighters' Guild member, but now he just does a lot of the weapon-forging. He's really good at it.

My Mother – Bellona - is pretty tough too, for an Imperial. She fights _smart_, with a Daedric quarterstaff – beware if that thing hits you! She's also got all four of my brothers bent to her will. All she has to do is narrow her eyes and they _quiver_.

Me? I'm the youngest and the only girl. Of the family, I probably get away with the most when it comes to getting into trouble. Then again, I wind up taking a lot of crap too – you know, the little sister type comments from my brothers and their friends. Sometimes I feel more like a mascot than a member. I'm not saying this is bad, it just makes dating opportunities a little scare on the ground, and everyone makes bug-eyed faces when you do something tough.

A door somewhere overhead clanged open, sending my own poor head ringing. Oooh…too much…booze!

Hurried, worried voices echoed in the corridor. Eh?

"Imperial criminal scum like you give the Empire a bad name, you see." The Dunmer was at it again – doesn't this little _s'wit_ know when to shut up? Apparently not, and it's starting to _bug_ me. "You're an embarrassment. Best if you just...disappeared!"

"I thought I said shut up! Asshole!" I grabbed an empty cup – one of two, oddly enough, then lobbed it like I'd lob a ball at a picnic across the hall. The Dunmer ducked but it was a narrow miss, the cup exploding in a shower of pottery on an unseen wall, raining down musically. "Don't make me throw the other one," I snapped, eyes flashing. Have I mentioned that I'm a redhead? People say we have tempers, but fail to realize that when you hear it often enough, not only does it touch off a temper, but you get the idea that since it's expected, it's okay. I used to think I had a remarkably sweet temper. A million feisty redhead comments later, I quit caring. You can't win. Blonds have the same problem.

"Fetching Dunmer…" I've got to ask Modryn to teach me a couple more Dunmeri slurs – _s'wit_ and _n'wah_ are only so useful.

There was a resonant clang and the sounds of heavy boots on the stone floor.

The Dunmer –who obviously hadn't gotten the message – _giggled_. Yeah – giggled. Like girls, or crazy people. Oh…I don't want to deal with this! "Do you hear that, Imperial? The guards are coming…for you!"

"Do you want the other cup? _In your face_?" I called in annoyance. "Pipe down, already!" I barked.

I tell you what, that's why I'm here. They stick the drunk and disorderly in here with the idiot and the experience is so annoying that the offense is _never_ repeated, lest you wind up down here even _longer_…

I listened intently. The first voice was female, low, concerned.

Then a heavy sigh as the footsteps evened out, they've reached the bottom of stairs. Hm, this explains why the voices started overhead. "My…my sons are dead, aren't they?" a male voice asked quietly. The quality of the voice held age – possibly a lot of it.

"We don't know that, sire," the woman was saying, "but my job _right now_ is to get _you _to safety…we'll worry about the others later…"

"This place," the old man seemed to be looking around, the voices drawing nearer. I could hear more boots tapping softly, furtively and light-stepped upon the ground. "The Imperial Prison?" I prowled over to the bars of my cell door and stretched to see if I could see anything. No such luck.

Several mirthless chuckles. "Yes, Your Majesty. Beneath the Legion Compound. We're headed for a secret passage known only to the Blades. No one can follow us through here. And even if they could, they'd be unwise to…why is there a prisoner in this cell?" the woman asked sharply, suddenly up in my face.

"Whoa!" I yelped, startled, dancing back, light footed. Lumbering fighters don't last long, unless they're big enough to withstand more than a few hits.

Now I know why the old man's voice is so familiar –there are only so many people who wear this kind of a gaudy getup, and so much clunky, chunky jewelry. I've seen Emperor Uriel several times, from a distance. Just at yearly addresses, the occasional tour of the kingdom – just like I know High Chancellor Ocato and several of the Elder Council by sight. For an old guy, his eyes are still incredibly bright, a shocking shade of sky-blue, unclouded by the age hanging on his face. He might have a lot of failings, but face to face he doesn't seem like an idiot.

"The usual mix-up with the watch!" the Redguard male at her arm declared, wincing under his superior's sharp demand, then glowering.

Great. Once again, I'm somewhere I don't want to or shouldn't be.

"It was supposed to be kept off-limits," she turned to one of her associates, who shrugged helplessly, though annoyed at the same time. The woman gave an exasperated snort. "Damn sloppy…get back away from this door, prisoner. If you seek to interfere, I shall run you through myself…." she snarled.

"Fine," I raised my hands, backing up, until I stepped into the wall at the far end of the cell. Those katanas look _really_ sharp. I'm no mage, so I'm pretty well defenseless – I don't think that any grappling skills I managed to learn are going to help. Mostly because I'm _short_. The top of my head _barely_ comes up to the Emperor's nose, and he's not exactly tall.

They're not just guards, I decided as I watched the leader open the cell door with a spell, examining their armor and weapons. Akaviri katanas, funny armor…the Emperor…Blades. Aptly named, if my two septims count.

I backed up and stood calmly at rest in a corner. I was warned twice to hold my ground as I half-smirked the whole time. Like I'm _that_ stupid.

"Wait…just a moment…." Emperor Uriel had finally taken notice of me, dressed in clothes meant to be comfortable under armor, a little bedraggled from my stint in prison. I bowed slightly, nervously, taking in his appearance – it's more different up close than from the back of a crowd, let me tell you. His robes were in some disarray, as if he had hastily thrown them on. He carried nothing more devastating than a dagger, and a look of strain and stress kept his brow crinkled. "I've seen you…" His blue eyes caught mine and held them. I could blink, but despite every instinct screaming at me to look away, I couldn't. Something in his expression changed, as if he could see through me, or perhaps, see me in some form of hyper-clarity, or an alternate version of me. "Let me see your face," he sidestepped the Blade who was keeping his distance, but effectively had me cornered.

"Sire," I bowed properly, finally able to look away, though I raised my eyes up just enough to see heavy robes and that oversized red jewel.

"Look at me," Well, that's permission. I straightened up and looked at his chin, then his nose when his mouth twitched, which seemed to satisfy him. Looking a little higher, his eyes showed…fear, but also resolution, determination and something like recognition.

For a moment I felt odd, as if I were a mirror, rather than a living girl. I've heard rumors that the Emperors still retain vestiges of power, because of the Dragonblood in them. That they can see the future. However, I get the feeling that the Emperor was looking at my_ soul_. Not comfortable, I _wish_ he'd blink or something. "What…what's going on?" I swallowed, when the silence stretched uncomfortably.

The emperor blinked as if waking up. He makes me nervous. Just a little. "My sons have been attacked, and it seems I am next," his voice held the certainty that 'attacked' meant 'dead'.

I felt a cold grip of fear. Oooh, that's not good. Major assassinations, and high profile ones too. It's weird, I didn't think the Dark Brotherhood would _ever_ go for so many highly placed targets, and from what I'm inferring it sounds like the princes were killed within a relatively short span of time. They were fine, last I heard, before I woke up here in prison.

"Now, it can't be as bad as all that…" I responded automatically, with my standard phrase reserved for freaking-out tearful clients. Sometimes, in the Fighter's Guild, you get people under stress as clients. Usually they just want to be reassured. No big deal. Plus, we see people who have just given up all the time. I like those missions, I get to 'be the hero' without running unnecessary, nasty risks to do it. And that's what I tell them 'as bad as all that'. Which isn't to say things aren't bad at all, which pisses people off. People don't like their concerns and fears made into jokes.

The Emperor's mouth twisted into a grim smile and he looked over my face again. "No?" I'd amused him, I was sure, which was not my intent. "Perhaps," he didn't believe it, but hey, that's his prerogative.

This is about where I usually get the details of the job I'm supposed to be doing.

"The Blades are leading me out of the city. Interestingly enough, it so happens the entrance to this escape route, is right here in your cell." He motioned to the woman who told me to keep my distance as she fiddled with the edge of the shelf upon which I was probably supposed to sleep – as opposed to the pallet I had been on. Which made me think I had decided to sleep on the floor, while somewhat intoxicated.

I never get _that _drunk though. Well, except that one time, on my sixteenth birthday...

"So why am _I_ here?" I asked, frowning.

The Blades exchanged looks at this, and I knew they were wondering the same thing.

The Emperor shrugged. "Perhaps the gods have put you here, that our paths might cross. As for the indiscretion which has _placed_ you here…" he shrugged, though it was like he knew what I was in for, or rather, could make an accurate guess, "it is not for that, which you will be remembered." His tone had changed again, and I realized it was the sound of a Seer making prophecy, or at least, declaration of possible future. I noticed, too, that for moment his pupils had turned white, giving the blue eyes a ghastly look, but then he blinked and it was gone.

"Now what?" I asked meekly. People who see the future, claim to see the future, and most Telvanni make me nervous. It's not like I'm afraid of catching something...I'm afraid I'll get caught in their machinations. If I have a role in the future, please, _please_, _**please**_ let it be something non-embarrassing. I don't want to pratfall in front of the whole Empire, or even half of it.

I really don't want to be a pawn.

Emperor Uriel closed his eyes, sighed heavily, then opened them again, "You will find your own path. Take care...there will be blood and death before the end." But the _look_ he gave me conveyed he did not believe in chance, anymore than he believed I would stand by while there was an open door in my cell. Particularly with things getting interesting: I had almost forgotten my headache.

No sooner had I remembered I was supposed to have one than it came crashing back in.

Ow!

"Your highness, we _must_ go," the lady Blade was saying. I was preoccupied enough to simply say 'mm hmm' and nod when told not to follow. But I caught the Emperor glancing back at me. That, at least, looks like an invitation – because his expression read quite clearly that I was free to walk down that dark corridor, just as I was free to stay right where I am.

And I'll bet he knows I'm curious, I don't want to be here, and it looks like trouble is on the move. I intend to be a moving target, if I have to be a target at all.

I did let them get well ahead and with that I headed after them, moving as stealthily as I knew how…which wasn't very. I'm not a sneaky by nature. I like to be the one ho kicks in the bad guys' door and yells 'on the floor, assholes!'. Yeah, the one whom _no one _takes seriously. Sigh. I hope that changes, as I get older, but I'm not holding out much hope.

The passage itself was made of the same whitish stone you find in Aylied ruins – unsurprising, this used to be Aylied territory. The whole region of Cyrodiil is littered with their old stuff –and if you've steady nerves and need to make a quick septim, there's plenty of opportunity to go treasure hunting.

I, however, wound up going around, the long way, because the Blades finally caught wise and locked a door behind them. I don't have a lockpick, I'm no thief. So I hoofed it, the whole long way, with only rusty weapons I found in transit.

There's a story for when I get home.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Two

--A--

Well, the assassins after the Emperor? They _weren't_ Dark Brotherhood, like I assumed they'd be (really, you hear 'assassin', you think Dark Brotherhood they've got a _nasty_ reputation). They were worse – the crazy screaming, fanatic-types running around in crazy armor and facemasks.

I _want_ my Silent Partner! These little rusty short swords just are _not_ doing it for me! I can only reach so far with them, and it's not far enough by half!

However, I made my stand, when an assassin tried to sneak up behind me. It's really hard to sneak, guys, if you're wearing steel boots. Just a hint. I parried off the blow with the mace and felt the jolt all the way up my arm, into my shoulder. However, that's why I fight two-handed, if I can't have my Silent Partner. Silent Partner is a double-ended sword – the bastard cross of an Akaviri katana and a pikestaff, with fire damage and a permanent feather charm, so I would never have trouble swinging it around. It's wonderful.

But, I'll make do.

The last assassin fell with my short sword through the underarm of his armor – an unprotected chink.

Standing there, panting from exertion, head clanging unmercifully because of the rush of a fight and the receding of a hangover, I was surprised it took the Blades several moments to realize they were one assassin short, and I was up there at all.

"Wait," Emperor Uriel held up a hand as the Blades closed ranks.

I edged forward. He was looking around, trying to pick me out of the shadows, like he knew I was there, before the others did. A moment later his eyes settled on me and his mouth twitched in what looked like approval. "There, there she is – did you get the last one?" he asked as if checking that I'd done some shopping properly.

Crinkling my brow I shrugged. "Sure," I gave the body a nudge with my foot, wishing for heavier boots, and it slid bonelessly over the edge to land with a nasty crackle and a thud. Eew. Maybe I should have left him up here…

"Excellent," the Emperor spoke for moment to his Blades. They were one short, their Captain having died some way back. I had her katana strapped across my back – it was too unfamiliar in my hands for me to use comfortably, but it obviously it's a symbolic thing, as all the Blades have them. I'm hoping to return it to someone soon. It's getting really heavy.

"She is not with them," Uriel was saying, loudly enough that I could hear. I sat down on the ledge kicking my feet over the edge like a child in a chair too big for her, watching, weapon points resting against the stone, my hands secure around the grips. See, me, harmless? Even if the Blades scrabbled up here, I could get down to ground level faster than they could. "She can help us…she _must _help us. Come here, child," Emperor Uriel reached up and beckoned me down to him, "I would prefer not to have to shout."

"Um…" I made a face – those two Blades are still brandishing weapons at me and I don't like it. It makes me really nervous. "I'm not here to pick a fight," I called back more to the Blades than to the Emperor, my nervousness showing. Maybe not the wisest thing to say to the Emperor, but it's my hide they'd be opening up.

"It is all right," Emperor Uriel answered, unperturbed and apparently unconcerned by my reluctance. "My guardians will do you no harm. Come here."

I hopped down, to the surprise of the three men, landing lightly in a crouch, weapons out. I straightened and pinned the blades beneath my arms. I could whip them free without hurt to myself if I was ambushed, but at the moment they were as close to 'safe' as I could get them.

Emperor Uriel smiled, once I was in conversing distance. "They don't understand why I trust you. They have not seen what I have seen," Emperor Uriel declared softly, taking in my appearance again, as if looking for signs and portents, I didn't like feeling like someone's scrying glass.

"What…have you seen…sire?" I appended but I felt a tingle of nerves. Weird – he seems like a pretty harmless old man just now, not an Emperor. He's still fairly impressive in person…but oddly human. Saying it like that doesn't really make sense, but it'll have to do.

Emperor Uriel searched my face. "Tell me – what do you know of the Nine Divines?"

I considered. "The Nine guide and protect us," I blinking in surprise at the question, half-expecting Emperor Uriel to ask me who my patron was, but he did not.

"Here, walk with an old man," and with that he offered me his arm.

I hesitated, not sure if he was joking or not, but within moments it became apparent he was not. I frowned and managed to secure my swords at the cost of ruining my belt. But hey, better that than accidentally cut the Emperor with one of these rusty things. Ooh, I don't like to think how the Blades would take it.

The sleeve of his outer robe was velvet and wonderfully soft beneath my fingers, but the arm beneath was surprisingly frail. I doubt he's very dangerous with that knife – best he stick with his Blades.

I tried not to look as out of my depth as I felt. I know basic courtesies, but I'm a Fighters' Guild girl, not a ladylike court butterfly. I don't have time to keep up with gossip or whatever highly educated ideas and philosophies are flapping about. I swap stories about the best armor on the market, or who has good shields. Not that I've _used_ a shield since I was just learning to fight, back when it was one weapon, one hand. I slog it out in swamps, and dive dungeons and stuff…you know, my job is _messy_, lots of mud, lots of bugs, and I love it! I feel weird in pretty dresses, and I'm highly allergic to a lot of perfumes.

"I have served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens," he motioned with his free hand as we began to walk. There's no sense standing around waiting to be ambushed, after all. "The skies are marked with numberless sparks, each a fire, and every one a sign. I know these stars very well, and have watched them for many years. I wonder...which sign marked your birth?" he looked over at me.

I know the stars too – when you've got a lousy sense of direction, it sometimes helps to be able to pick out the constellations. What doesn't help is when you're not sure where you are, _or_ which direction they point and or are facing when you try and figure out where the hell _you_ are.

In this case, it's not just a throwaway question. "The Lover," I answered blankly, with a shrug.

"Yes…yes, that's about right," he nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer. "Tell me your name, child."

"Ailirah of Leyawiin," I answered, frowning with a sigh. Due to Nordic conventions, my last name – Einardottar - translates out to 'Einar's Daughter', Einar being my father. I haven't earned my own proper epithet, like my father's 'The Hammer', or Julius 'Truesteel'. It's not so much a real last name – we retain our lineage-identifier - but it's more a colloquial thing. We never choose our own, it's given to us, and it's no joking matter. "I belong the Fighter's Guild there."

"Indeed?" The comment about 'Fighter's Guild' surprised Emperor Uriel.

I grinned as best I could – it's a cheeky grin, and kept from being reckless by the fact that I've still got _dimples, _in addition to my freckles. I looked like a fetching _chipmunk_ growing up. "Don't let my height fool you – I'm scary in a fight." I am. Even if I wasn't, Silent Partner _is_. Except it's locked away in some evidence box somewhere.

One of the Blades snorted softly, but Uriel smiled, though I was starting to see the fatalism behind it. "Are…are you all right?" I asked.

Emperor Uriel's expression became grave, as he nodded once. "Your appearance here signifies many things, Ailirah."

"May I ask…what did you see of me?" Despite my concerns about being drawn into things, I couldn't help but be curious. Just watch, I'm diving headlong into trouble again. It's my curse. I just _have_ to go look.

The Emperor paused then shrugged. "I saw only a girl with red hair, and brown eyes, who would come at the guttering end of a torch…to carry the next."

I scowled. Cryptic. Doesn't it figure? Why can't Seers speak more plainly?

Emperor Uriel chuckled wryly, probably at my expression. "The Sight is a tricky affair at best, Ailirah of Leyawiin – it is not like looking into a scrying-mirror. You may think of the torches as lives, I think we can safely say."

I wanted to argue: who am _I_ to get involved in anything that warrant's premonition? "Why me?" The words escaped my mouth and I winced visibly. There I go – open your big mouth up Ailirah, and just shove your foot in it.

Emperor Uriel chuckled softly and patted my hand. "Because there is only one of you." That's an evasion if ever I've heard one. It's a good thing there's only one of me, truth be told. Two would be trouble.

--A--

We hit a snag not long after this and I had to let go of Emperor Uriel's arm to use my weapons effectively, keeping myself between him and his Blades. Sort of a last-defense – that's how we do it in the Guild. You put your toughest close-range fighter closest to the client.

One of the Blades had tried to open a gate, only to find it barred at the other side. "They've gotten behind us!" he barked. Baurus – there we go. I'm not so great with names.

I turned, looking about for the assassins. I was never good with detect life spells, and I regretted it _now_.

"You, Ailirah," the other Blade addressed me,

"They're behind us!" Baurus barked as the sounds of clanking boots echoed up the passage.

My stomach shifted by my hands stayed steady. I've done this before. It's just like any other mission. "They've got us bottled up!" not an exclamation of panic. I planted my feet and shunted Emperor Uriel back nearer the wall, so no one could get behind me. Again, standard procedure: I've done bodyguard work, short term, before. I gave the two short swords an experimental twirl. They're still alien in my hand, but this is no time to be silly about these things. If there's time later, I'll see about wrapping the hilts or something….

"Watch the Emperor, guard him with your life," he gave me an off-handed gesture.  
"Come on, sire," I said gently, herding him towards the side passage Baurus was holding open.

"It's safe," Baurus encouraged. "So keep _him_ that way."

"Right," I nodded and edged forward, double-checking the 'safe' spot. It was a single room, a dead end. It looks like a _trap_ if ever I saw one. I was almost shaking with adrenaline: it's a first for me, getting cornered like this.

"Ailirah," I turned from the doorway to look at Emperor Uriel. He looked suddenly pale, in the light of a blue-white magelight torch, hanging in a bracket. Despite the paleness, the frailness, the blue eyes brimmed with a sort of fierce determination, strength, courage. "Time grows short – as do the minutes of my life."

"What…now wait a minute!" Whoa! We're not dead yet!

Emperor Uriel continued over me. "I spoke before that you would come at the end of a life – that life was mine."

"Hey now, it's not over!" I barked, reinforcing what I was already thinking, hearing the Blades outside clash with the assassins. "We're not dead yet…and neither are you! You can't just…" what? Give up? I believe in fighting to the bitter end…you have to. Otherwise…well, you die, obviously. But aside from that…I have people to leave behind. I wouldn't want to make them sad, just because things got tough, or scary and I simply _gave up_.

They'd bring me back somehow just so they could kick my ass. I really do believe that.

I moved to block the door, but the Emperor gripped my shoulder with surprising strength and held me back. Emperor Uriel smiled, pleasant but not encouraged. I wondered, given the odd quality in his expression, if this wasn't the moment he had Seen. "You are young," he said simply. "Your stars are not mine. The Lover shall sweeten your journey as you confront your fate. It encourages this old man to know that things are being left to someone like you." he declared forcefully, before he reached up and placed a hand on my head, as if in blessing or benediction.

I felt strength and courage swell in my chest, my hands stopped shaking.

Just the same, I blinked. Who am _I_, though? "You speak of fate…and divine will…but isn't it _our_ job to just…to do what we can until we _can't_ anymore? You know – pull our fair share of the load?" I've always believed that the gods are busy, so rather than pray for something then sit around playing with our toes while we wait, we should get up, go _do_ what we can about _making_ that prayed-for event come true.

Proactive. That's a good work.

"Because sometimes these things have to happen, for the sake of continuity. You are young – it is not a lesson _meant_ for the young, Ailirah. _Eighty-seven_ winters I have seen, and you, barely twenty-five, unless I miss my mark," the emperor said fiercely, but at the same time gently, as if I were the one about to careen to my untimely, premature demise. "My dreams grant me no opinions of success – all I can do is pave the way for those who follow. But in your face, I behold the sun's companion. The dawn of Akatosh's bright glory may banish the coming darkness. With such hope, and with the promise of your aid, my heart must be satisfied."

I swallowed. It's a lot to chew on, and I simply don't have the time. "I…I'll do what I can…"I said automatically, my head still reeling. He's right, it's a lesson for older folks. I don't give up. I keep fighting – that may have to do with having four brothers who never say die. "I promise."

"Ailirah." The lined face looked oddly sympathetic, as if he knew how hard I found it to accept going meekly to death, like a lamb to slaughter. "Men are but flesh and blood. They know their doom, but not the hour. In this I am blessed to see the hour of my death...To face my apportioned fate, then fall. I go now to my grave. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You must not blame yourself."

I said nothing. The feeling of very bad things in the offing had just settled over me. Every instinct I've got is screaming at me to argue, to somehow intervene. I've never faced a death I was prepared for, and it was sickening to watch.

Emperor Uriel reached up and dragged the heavy red amulet off, and held it in his hands, looking into the crystalline depths. Odd lights played in the heart of the gem, reflected in the Emperor's eyes, which he closed a moment later. "This is where my journey ends. For you though, the road is long and dangerous. Now, give me your hand." He held out his.

I obeyed mutely. The Emperor set the amulet in my palm, and closed my fingers over it, as far as they would go. The amulet was unnaturally heavy, and oddly warm. Not cold like crystals are supposed to me. Magical crystal, I realized. It has to be.

"I entrust to you the Amulet of Kings. Take it to Jauffre, at Weynon Priory, south of Chorral. Tell Jauffre to find my last son, the very last of my blood, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion. Stay with the boy – he will need you, before the end." Again with the Seer's tones, and the odd change in the eyes.

"I'll do everything in my power," I answered softly.

"Good…" there was a very awkward moment, in which I stood there feeling uncomfortable and the Emperor let out a sigh of relief.

"Well…goodbye…sire…" I swallowed awkwardly. What do you say to someone, who knows he's doing to die, maybe within minutes?

Uriel smiled. "Stand true, my friend. May your heart be your guide and the gods grant you strength."

I saw the panel move seconds before a spell sent me rocketing back into the opposing wall. I slammed into it and fell forward with a grunt. Looking up from my belly-down position I watched in horror as one of the strange assassins jumped out from behind the cleverly hidden door, sinking his knife into the vulnerable old man's back. I shouted, flinging my off-hand weapon at the assassin as soon as I scrambled to my knees.

I realized, here, the only person who could have spelled me was Uriel himself. I watched him crumple, jumped forward in my sword's wake to angrily drive the other sword through the gap beneath the chin of the stunned assassin, with a powerful shout that echoed off the walls, the sound reverberant against the stone.

I knelt beside Uriel and looked at him, then closed his glassy blue eyes, biting my lip, tears of frustration and disappointment, even sadness, stinging my eyes. It's odd, to cry over someone I only met recently, I know…but still. He seemed like a nice old man, for the time I knew him. Maybe it's just the idea of knowing death is coming for you, speeding at you and you can't stop it. It's just…

Unfair. I know that's life, but still.

Speaking of 'stills' and 'buts'. There's another Prince? A secret Septim, if you will? He's going to be in some deep shit, if these assassins find out about him. I know _that_ assassin isn't telling anyone anything he overheard, but what's the old saying? 'Even walls have ears'.

Baurus came bumbling back in and I was halfway through a shout and an attempt to run him through before he parried quickly and called out.

"Wait, whoa! It's me, Baurus!" he cried, surprised by the ferocity of the attack, coming from such a small woman. I'm small, but I'm strong.

"Don't sneak up on people!" I barked.

"The Emper…what..." Baurus demanded, livid as he noticed Emperor Uriel's corpse.

"Oi!" I danced away from the corpse. "I tried! Do you not see the dead assassin and the Ailirah-shaped dent in the wall?" I shouted. I didn't want to fight Baurus –the Blades are good. They protect the Emperor for a _reason_.

I did want to cry a little more and throw a pity party, but this is hardly the time. So I sniffled and gingerly rubbed my nose, careful not to get snot all over my wrist.

Baurus apparently accepted this –though with some ill grace – casting a look at the wall. There was no hole, obviously, but the way I ache, there ought to be one. Just to prove I was there. Regardless of any ill-feeling, I suppose I understand, even if I don't like him taking it out on me. The Blades are _dedicated_ to the protection of the emperor, and the emperor was now _dead. _

"The amulet of Kings…where it is?" Baurus was on his feet again.

"Here – he gave it to me…only temporarily," I added quickly.

"Gave it to you, why?" Baurus narrowed his eyes.

I sighed, ruffling my curly hair in its loose ponytail. "I have to take it to Weynon Priory…to…_Jauffre_, he said." Looks like I've just been contracted to do a little charity work. Good thing I'm not opposed to charitable acts…and there's something about this I don't like. I don't think I'd hand this mission off, even if I had someone to hand it off _to_.

"Jauffre?" the name evidently meant something to Baurus. "Why?"

"He said…he said there was another heir," I added, looking down at Emperor Uriel. Baurus had folded the old man's hands, so he looked like he was resting, not dead. Except for the pool of blood behind him, obviously.

Baurus frowned and pulled his helmet off, sitting on his heels, looking a little at a loss. I wholly commiserate. But we can't both of us do it, or nothing'll get done.

I unslung the heavy katana from across my shoulders and leaned it on the wall.

Baurus eyes fixed upon it as he pondered. "Well, that's the first I ever heard about…but I suppose Jauffre would know. Jauffre's the head of my order: Grandmaster of the Blades…though you wouldn't know it to meet him. He lives as a monk at the Priory."

"Why?" I asked, blinking.

Baurus shrugged. "There's a longstanding association between the Order of Talos and the Blades. A lot of our older members retire and go into the clergy," he shook his head and looked at me. "Strange. He trusted you….must have seen something in you…it's the Dragonblood, they say. They see more than lesser men," Baurus declared. Common knowledge, but it was good to hear a human voice. The silence down here now that the fighting was over, the mission failed, could drive you mad.

No kidding. "So, what now?" I asked, chewing on my lip before raising a hand to my mouth and chewing idly on my thumbnail. What a day.

"Now, you've got to get to Weynon Priory, obviously," Baurus said and heaved a sigh. "There's a passage out," he motioned to the passage the assassin had used. "It was _supposed_ to be a secret…the intelligence this enemy has is…disturbing."

"I'll say," I grunted in agreement. "Then what?"

"Head out through the sewers…" Baurus gave me an assessing look. " I heard you say you're Fighters' Guild."

"That's right," I nodded. "Since I was seventeen," I got in early, as an apprentice, then at eighteen was inducted fully. My bothers all went in early at sixteen, but Mother insisted I wait. It comes from being a girl, I think…but I digress.

"Well, nothing in the sewers that'll give you trouble; you look like you can handle yourself pretty well."

I nodded. Everyone knows goblins and rats live in the sewers – I'd already encountered several of both – and a couple of icky zombies – and was relatively unscathed. "What about you?" I asked.

Baurus looked at the dead emperor. "I'll stay here with the Emperor…until my backup arrives."

"Right," I nodded.

"Thank you, for bringing Renault's sword." Baurus said quietly.

"A warrior's soul is in his sword," I declared quietly. The words have special meaning to me, they're not just empty words that sound good.

Baurus bowed his head and nodded in agreement.

Hesitantly I patted his shoulder. "You're welcome." I slipped into the passage and started for the sewers, securing the Amulet of Kings to my belt with a slipknot, letting it rest uncomfortably tight in my pocket.

--A--


	3. Chapter 3

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos

--A--

Chapter Three

--A--

My first priority was to get myself equipped – the nearest Fighters' Guildhall is in Bravil, but the best place to reequip is to go to Skingrad. Given that the heir apparent seemed safe enough, covered by the wonderful mask of obscurity, I decided I had best keep my head down.

So to Skingrad I went, just long enough to get a fresh weapon and a little more armor. I usually prefer chainmail over padded but comfortable clothes. I can't hardly move in full plate, and as I'm not much for sneaking around, it doesn't matter if I jingle a little.

"Never seen such a little thing go through so much gear!" Fadus Calidius shook his head as I shrugged the chainmail tunic on, settling it over my padded shirt, so I wouldn't chafe across the shoulders.

"I know – the smaller we are, right?" I chuckled while fastening my bracers.

"You know – your brother Rogerik was in here a couple of days ago." Calidius leaned on his workbench, arms crossed, eying me closely.

I held up a hand. I'll bet he was. "If Roge was looking for me, he's in the wrong city. I don't want to talk about it," I huffed with an exasperated sigh, strapping on the other bracer, clumsy in annoyance.

Doesn't it just figure? I disappear for a day or two and they send out a search party. Fetching brothers.

"Julius deny your request for transfer again?" Calidius asked sympathetically as I began fastening the axe-rig about my waist. This particular configuration is one of Calidius' inventions. Weapons like Silent Partner aren't exactly normal weapons. Thankfully Calidius is especially gifted when it comes to inventing new ways to carry exotic weapons. You should see the modifications he made to Einar's, my father's pack, so he could carry his double-ended battleaxe, _Journey's End_. That thing's bigger than _I_ am.

I scowled at Calidius while nodding once, sharply. I've been trying to transfer from Leyawiin for months. Just to shake things up, though mostly to get away from my brothers. I love them to death, but I'd love them even more if I didn't feel like they were trying to protect me form the whole world and everything in it. I'd love to be able to experience things without their watchful eyes.

There's also the fact that I want to be a little more centralized, because so many of my contracts take place in Colovia. I even tried getting to Chorrol, within shouting distance of Uncle Modryn, but no go. Sometimes I'm glad we're a tight little family, but most of the time I feel choked.

Is it so wrong to want a little breathing room? To try functioning as an adult by the rest of the Empire's standards?

I don't think so.

"Ah, it's just cause they love you, Ailirah-girl," Calidius slapped me on the back, but I didn't pitch forward.

"They love me anymore they're going to _strangle_ me." I'm used to getting whacked affectionately – it's a guy thing. They use it to measure your starch. "You sure you don't mind letting these go?" I asked, unhooking the axes to give them experimental swings. They're beautifully balanced, and if I can't have Silent Partner, dual-wield battleaxes are the next best thing. I thrust them back in the rig effortlessly, so I could check the draw.

I'd like to point out that once I graduated from sword and shield, I studied dual-wield axes like these. I eventually gravitated to Silent Partner because even when you have a weapon you call your 'primary', you'll practice with a quarterstaff. So I made the transition to something like a staff, recognizing that it extends my reach a _lot. _A weapon like Silent Partner makes sober people think a minute before they start shit.

"I suppose so," I grunted noncommittally before checking my gear over, to make absolutely sure everything was how and where I wanted it. You can never check your gear often enough. "Thanks Calidius – you're a real winner." I beamed at him.

"Oi, Ailirah-girl?"

I stopped in the doorway, scrunching my face up. Dammit – _this_ is the question I didn't want to answer, the one I've been deftly avoiding. I should have known I'd never get away with it.

"What happened to your normal gear? I thought you and Silent Partner were inseparable," he declared innocently. "Or is this a fling?" he nodded to my new battleaxes.

I slouched guiltily, ignoring the joke – it's a jab at my brothers, in all actuality. "I got in a bar fight and it got confiscated! It's…like…it's a temporary thing. Separation, you know." I snapped then stomped out, Calidius' laughing advice on 'practice the denial' echoing in my ears.

Ugh. What a bunch of crap. Day in day out – nothing but. What did I _do_ to deserve this?! I'm a nice person!

--A--

When I got to the crossroads, deciding whether to head straight north to Weynon Priory, or to get home to check in while leaving word I needed a new weapon, required I actually sit down on the roadside to have a good hard think.

Con: If I go to Chorrol, I get my ass chewed for not checking in with my guildmaster, to advise them of the completion of a contract.

Pro: The sooner I do it, the sooner I can get it over with.

Con: If I go home, I'm going to get grilled, because inevitably, they will find out I was in _prison_.

Pro: The sooner Father knows I need a new sword, the sooner he'll get on one for me.

Con: We are so doggone busy these days.

Pro: It's a mission from the Emperor himself.

Here's the thing: how safe is this secret Septim? As it stands, it doesn't sound as if anyone but me knows – but who can say how long _that_ will last? Definitely not forever. I pursed my lips before looking one way, then the other. Might as well head to Leyawiin. I can't help if I don't have the right tools for the job.

The lingering doubt in my stomach, however, settled in, refusing to go away.

The fact I kept waiting for crazy assassins to pop out of nowhere didn't help either.

--A--

Look left: clear.

Look right: clear.

I got two tiptoed steps forward when a door off to the left opened. "You're late," a woman's voice declared neutrally.

Just what I was trying to avoid. Crap. "Hi mom!" I beamed at Bellona. "It's…" my expression dimmed as she scowled at me. It's that mother look – the one where they know you've been out and up to no good, so it will do you no good to lie about it. Craaaap.

Every inch my height and then some, though a little more stoutly built, she didn't look much like anyone's mother, her copper hair cut tomboyish short, her smoky green eyes narrowed at me.

"You got a new mace, is it one of…" I started conversationally, hoping to derail her. I'd ask if it was an anniversary gift from Einar, but their anniversary isn't for five months yet.

"_You're late_." Of all my family members, my mother is the only one immune to the 'baby of the family' routine.

I winced. "Just a little," I held up two fingers, indicating 'a little'. "It's okay, though, because the contract's done. I'll tell Julius then I'll just be off..." I chattered, knowing full well I was not winning any prizes, nor was I gaining any ground, unless the fact she was no longer scowling, but instead giving me a look of worry, counted as 'gaining ground'.

"Off?" Rogerik stuck his head in. "Bloody hell, what happened to your Silent Partner?"

Bellona cleared her throat then gave Rogerik the eyebrows.

I looked from one to the other, trying to stifle a smirk. She _hates_ it when he swears. I wonder, can I just sneaky-sneak out of…

"Where are _you_ going?" Bellona asked. "We're not done yet."

…here. Woman's got eyes like a fetching _hawk_.

"Nowhere…Chorrol." I am gutless. I am a gutless puke the likes of which has never crawled above ground in the entire history of the Empire, and the look Rogerik is giving me confirms it. Gutless because I have just spilled them all over the floor - no need for a basket, folks, they're fine where they are. Maybe now I can shut up now that I've no more guts to spill… "I've got stuff..." I started feebly. Dammit –I've already lost. Craaaap.

"You've got contracts piling up," Bellona declared. "Go tell Julius you're home…"

"Where _is_ Silent Partner?" Rogerik asked, his brow creasing. Rogerik looks a lot like Einar – he's huge, compared to me and most of the people I know. Like my father he wears his thick brown hair pulled back in a queue, but unlike Einar, he stays clean shaven, which shows off his Nordic features. He inherited Bellona's eyes, though. All the boys did.

"Silent Partner is on holiday," I grunted then turned stiffly to trot up the stairs.

"'Lirah."

I stopped, closing my eyes praying to sweet Mara for patience.

Einar stood in the doorway behind Bellona, absolutely dwarfing her, yet they didn't look mismatched. Features shrouded as ever beneath his dark brown beard and mustache, his brown eyes, my eyes, sparkled from their deep sockets under heavy brows. Thankfully, I did not inherit the monster eyebrows. He still carried his smith's hammer, looking as if someone had pulled him from the forge, to let him know his girl was home.

"Daddy." I swallowed nervously, chewing on my lip.

"Rogerik raises a good point – where is your sword, 'Lirah?" Einar asked quietly. He has a rather hoarse voice - he ruined it years ago, a combination of too much yelling and a nasty fight that resulted in someone trying to pummel his throat into jelly. I don't quite understand the story even now, as I think it was glossed over for us kids. I wasn't yet five when it happened.

I closed my eyes. Einar is one of those people who believes a warrior's _soul_ goes into his sword – or her sword, in my case. I felt my shoulders slump, mentally kicking myself _again _for being a fantastically gutless worm. Here was me thinking I had no more guts to spill. "It's…in the custody of the city watch," I ran a hand over my hair, pulling out the tie to fluff it.

"In the custody of the _watch_?" Rogerik asked. "This is bloo…" he cringed as Bellona tilted her head warningly. I was under too much pressure to laugh, or even smirk as I usually would. "Eh –what'd you do?"

"I got into a fight," I said testily. I hate being interrogated by my _brothers_. Parents, I can understand, with parents it's their job.

It took five minutes to get the mess sorted to the point where I turned to Rogerik, cheeks flaming with temper, and bellowed back at him. "Then I'll apply for a transfer to get the hell out of your hair!" My cheeks burned furiously.

"Transfer denied," Julius declared calmly, coming down the stairs. "Only you make so much noise," he said sympathetically. "What's chewing your ankles?" Julius is the only member of the family who wears his hair short. He's also the only one who's adopted the Imperial fashion of a mustache and goatee, both soft to the touch and closely cropped. Named after Julianos, he's definitely the smartest of the four, though you wouldn't think so with that bigass broadsword strapped to his back.

"Ailirah – watch your language," Bellona growled.

"_F__ine_!" I yelled at everyone, feeling thoroughly put out and put upon. "You – you're not my father!" I shouted at Rogerik, jabbing a finger at him. "I want a transfer Julius – they're ganging up on me!" appealing to one brother to overrule another sometimes works. It's worth a shot, as Julius _is_ th one who encourages me to be tough and fight things out myself. Of the three, he's the one most likely to sit back and let me get shoulder-deep in trouble before he steps in. Hence why he's my favorite.

So of course the story was repeated and when I refused point blank to tell what my big mission was – it doesn't seem smart to blab to far about me having the Amulet of Kings in my _pocket_ – I was chastised for messing around while on duty. My bothers immediately assumed I had a boyfriend (or two or three) in some closet somewhere, which made it frivolity – bordering on dereliction of duty, according to Rogerik - and I was immediately dispatched on a local job, with the understanding there was a lot of work to be done and no time for me to play around.

They get so worked up because they know what their friends were like at my age. Bellona impressed on all five of us it's better to show a little restraint and make informed choices than simply to follow the crowd. She was especially adamant there should _never_ be any _accidents_. Or she'd be very disappointed, and in this family that's a step worse than death. Death is final - the Wrath of Mother is lingering. It's not a popular standpoint these days, but it's how we were raised.

Does it make me naive to want a _meaningful _relationship, instead of just any old one?

I threw myself face down on my bed, shoved my pillow on top of my head and screamed into the mattress, until my lungs ran out of air and I coughed. If there's _one_ _thing_ I inherited from Einar it's sheer lung capacity.

"Oh Ailirah," Bellona came in and sat down beside me, stroking my hair.

"They don't listen!" I wailed. I swore fluently in Ta'agra, which wound up garbled by my mattress. Bellona probably had the gist of what I was saying, but as she doesn't actually _speak_ Ta'agra, she ignored it.

"Your father _does_ listen."

True, Einar and Bellona both let my brothers and I shout it out. It's always been that way - it's easier to make yourself heard if three or more of us aren't shouting as well. "Mommy…" I whined, sitting up to let her hug me, resting my chin on her shoulder, frustrated, frightened, and tired. "I've got to do this…" I choked.

"Why can't you tell me what it is?" Bellona asked, finger combing my hair calmly.

"I just _can't_."

"What happened in the Imperial City?" Bellona changed tracks, respecting my privacy, of the moment. She worries about all her kids, but she respects that we're all grown up. Even me.

"I can't tell you that either." I felt tears sting my eyes, real tears. "I'm sorry."

"Well, then, I'm afraid I can't appeal to Julius. He's your guildmaster, after all, and has the right to dispatch you on contracts as needed," Bellona answered patiently. "Can this task be put off at all?"

"I don't know," I leaned over, elbows on my knees. "I just don't know." My gut says 'no more than it has already'.

"Well, then my advice is to hurry up with your duties, and I'll have a word with Julius in the meantime. The most terrible news has surfaced. It's why we were all so worried." Bellona declared.

I slowly raised my head out of my hands as my stomach slipped down towards my heels, my expression going blank as I regarded my mother's face. Aging as she is, she's still beautiful. "What news?"

"The Emperor, and his sons were killed, presumably while you were on the road. Things are…are a little chaotic right now. That's why your brothers worried," Bellona explained gently. "Can you blame them?"

I sighed. "No. What did you hear?"

Nothing much, as it turns out. The Empire's in such an uproar, I felt a little better as I packed up to see to my 'duties', the whole while ignoring the chewing sensation at the back of my mind and in my stomach that something really bad was about to happen.

And that it was going to be my fault.

On the upside, some emissary for the Blades might show up either A) demanding I hand over the Amulet of Kings as I'm no fit custodian since I'm taking my sweet time, of B) they'll yell at my brothers for detaining an Imperial Agent. I hope it's B.

--A--

Something Bad caught up with me almost two and a half weeks later, just as I was ready to tell Julius I was leaving the guild unless he caved and let me transfer somewhere _away_ from him, away from the others. Bellona and Einar I can handle, but my four idiot brothers…no.

I was running my horse down the Green Road, on the homewards stretch to Leyawiin when suddenly _they _jumped out, spooking my mount which immediately reared and tried to throw me.

I kicked one assassin in the face as I struggled to control the panicking beast until I managed to get off my horse, which bolted as soon as it was loose. Dammit, and damn them for the sheer inconvenience. "That's her! She was with Septim!"

"No shit," I grunted. Rather than panic, as I think they expected me to, I darted forward, burying both axes in the cuirass of one of the members. I wrenched the weapons free, flinging the body aside in a practiced motion, while the other three stood still, stunned, as their comrade hit the ground.

Her armor vanished in a puff of dust, revealing simple red robes, like those a novice or acolyte might wear, but a shade of maroon I didn't readily associate with any religious orders.

I swung to block the next attack finding myself in the middle of a fight – which is the best place to be, when you dual-wield, or have a weapon like Silent Partner.

Within minutes, the assassins lay scattered across the road, one of them gasping, choking as he struggled to breathe. "Who are you?" I demanded, grabbing him by his hair.

He strove to spit and I slammed his head back into the road. "Wrong answer, asshole. Who the hell are…dammit!" I stood up, irritably, as the man's eyes rolled as he let out a long, slow breath, redolent with death.

I looked at the bodies. They've found me. They know I was there. I can't wait any longer, if they can find me they can find the Emperor's son. Anonymity's only going to last him so long. Please, Mara, let him be a sensible man and have joined the Fighter's Guild as soon as possible…

I trudged off to find the horse. I can't wait, I have to get to Chorrol. And if I'm not careful, I'm going to get myself kicked out of my own guild, though I think that's actually not as bad as what _can_ happen, now that these crazy-ass lunatics are crawling out of the woodwork.

--A--


	4. Chapter 4

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Extra thanks, as she helps spot the logic gaps in the Main Quest.

--A--

Chapter Four

--A--

"Uncle Modryn!" I cried, pushing the door to his house open after banging hard on it. I've had a key to Modryn's place since I was a kid. He's never asked for it back, and I've never offered.

"What're you doing, bothering an old mer?" Modryn asked huffily, from his easel.

Modryn likes to paint. The problem is, he's not very good at it. I've seen kids' stick figures look more sophisticated. Still, he gets points for trying.

I walked over to Modryn. "Nice one, Uncle Modryn – what is it? A fish? Wasn't that my idea?" I teased. This goes back to the phase where he was trying to teach me to paint and used to tease me unmercifully, the way uncles do, that my birds looked like fish. So now, everything looks like fish. Payback's a bitch.

"It's a _horse_," Modryn answered, ill-tempered, getting up to glare, red-eyed at me. It would be a scary look if I wasn't practically family.

I glared back at him until his lips twitched, then pulled a face at him that involved crossed eyes and a stuck-out tongue.

Modryn belted out a laugh, in which I joined. This is a usual exchange, by the way. "Good to see you girl," he opened his arms and I hugged him tightly. Uncle Modryn is old enough not to be all stupid about being hugged by the closest thing to a niece he's got. Me. And I'm his favorite of the family - always have been. My bothers have to call him 'sir'. I'm special. "What brings you up to this rickety old mer?" he chuckled.

"I need to check in with someone, so I can do some…some stuff."

"You in trouble?" Modryn asked, narrowing his eyes. He always assumes I'm in trouble, and not without reason. He's likely to ask if he can help me deal with it, not try to deal with it for me. Like a predator teaching a cub to hunt: wound the food-beastie so the little critter can finish it off, get a feel for its claws or teeth or whatever.

"No," I shook my head, lying through my teeth.

"You're a bad liar, Ailirah," Modryn said simply.

"Yes. But I can handle it," I waved. "I just need to shake loose from Julius - he's _determined_ to keep me running from one end of Cyrodiil to the other and he's _threatening_ to send me to one of the guildhalls in Elsweyr. For _training purposes_." I rolled my eyes. "I can't go to Elsweyr!" Not that I don't like it there. I've been several times, with one or more of the family, and even learned a little about the 'speaking drums' the desert nomads use.

"He thinks you've got a boyfriend, doesn't he?" Modryn asked. When I nodded he rolled his eyes.

"If you really were my niece, there'd be none of this foolishness. You'd have probably been through three or four by now," he said, giving me an assessing look, nodding to emphasize the point.

I blushed, despite my very best efforts not to. "Uncle Modryn, that's _not_ something I want to talk about," I said stiffly. Especially not with you.

Modryn snickered. "Ah, it's all right, Ailirah. Go find your lucky lad, I'll tell him I said it was all right."

"I don't have a…" I wanted to scream in frustration, but to my credit, did not. "Ugh. Never mind, never mind. Thanks," I kissed his cheek and hugged him again before bounding out, a tease about 'safe methods' ringing in my ears, cheeks blazing.

Ugh if they're not trying to keep me isolated, they're advocating I go hit the town and hit it hard. I can't win.

--A--

Weynon Priory was right outside of Chorrol – my need to check in and then effectively disappear was rooted in the niggling suspicion if the Grandmaster of the Blades was living as a _monk_, then he probably would want someone to do his running around for him, as he probably wouldn't be surrounded by his usual cohorts. And as I would be the nearest person on hand, already in the know, all the running around would fall squarely on me. Aside from which, I'm Fighters' Guild - if the Blades didn't do this, they'd hire one of us guildmembrs anyway.

"Excuse me? Sir?" I hailed the Dunmer I found trotting out from behind the priory complex.

"Yes, what?" he asked shortly, stopping to scowl at me.

"I'm Ailirah.."

"Good for you, Chapel's that way," he pointed back towards the smaller of the two buildings.

"Actually," I bit my tongue. Mustn't get angry. Fetching _s'wit, _"actually I'm looking for Brother Jauffre."

"Brother Jauffre?" The Dunmer stopped his brisk trot. "Why?"

"Why not?" I countered.

"If he's not sleeping or eating, he'll be fussing with his books, I reckon, over in the Priory House, just there." With that he strode past me.

"Thanks…" Never mind. I walked up to the Priory house and hesitantly opened the door, unsure if I was supposed to knock.

"Come in, child, come in. It's quite all right." The door was taken by a middle-aged monk, who smiled. "I was watching at the window," he motioned. "Eronor is a little cantankerous, but he's all right. What can we help you with?"

"I'm…looking for Brother Jauffre…" I started again. How many times am I going to say this today?

"Ah, I'll bet this is the 'I can't tell you' sort of business too," the monk smiled benignly, not at all perturbed. "Of course it is, he's up in his office. Do you see those stairs?" he motioned to the stairway, "Follow them. You'll find him reading, I daresay. There you go," he nodded, waving encouragingly when I put my foot on the first step and looked back. "It's quite all right, go on."

The priory smelled of dust, wood and something I couldn't quite place. The stairs creaked slightly under my weight as I mounted them, looking around. A Talonic order, just like Baurus had said. Something about the place smacked of practicality and order past what I would expect from the clergy.

"Are you lost?"

I backpedaled, then poked my head into the office. Sitting at a table, laden with books, was an old man who immediately reminded me of my favorite oak sparring staff growing up. A Breton, wrinkled with age, but his features were still sharp, eyes still keen, and despite the fact he was aging he struck me as a mean opponent. His shaved pate said he was a monk, but the way he carried himself when he rose to his feet called him a fighter. "I'm looking for Brother Jauffre."

"You've found him – how may I assist you, child?"

I _wish_ people would stop calling me that. But they mean it kindly, I suppose, and as they don't know my name...

I closed the door as I stepped in. "My name is Ailirah of Leyawiin. I…" I frowned, then rolled my eyes while digging out the Amulet of Kings, "I was charged to bring this to you." I set the stone on his desk. It still glittered and glowed, as if there was some kind of living soul beneath the magical crystal casing.

Jauffre's eyes widened to the size of septims – pardon the joke – and he touched the amulet hesitantly, then looked up at me, sharply. "This is the Amulet of Kings…how did you get it?" he demanded, his brown eyes flashing with suspicion.

I backed up slightly. "I was there, when the Emperor died," I answered truthfully.

"That was almost three weeks ago, why did it take..." Jauffre began.

I raised my hands to placate him. "Well, things at the guild got busy..." I protested, though it sounded pretty feeble to me. I wish I hadn't said it.

"_'Things at the Guild got busy'_?" Jauffre made a sour face at me. "And you've been traipsing around with _this_ in your pocket for nearly a _month_?"

Hey now – you could have sent someone to look for me and ask the 'what the hell' questions! "Well, it's not like I wanted to – especially after the assassins started coming after _me_. But you don't know my brothers, and I thought it'd be _smarter_ to keep my trap shut about that hunk of junk. It's been nothing but trouble for me," I announced petulantly. "So, he wanted it here, I brought it here, goodbye!" I turned sharply, thoroughly irritated.

"Wait, wait a moment…Ailarah, did you say?" the Grandmaster said, as if regretting his lapse of calm.

I stopped. "It's eye-lee-rah," I corrected patiently, then proceeded to explain how I met the Emperor, the journey though the underground escape route, everything he said to me, as clearly as I could remember. I went on to detail how Emperor Uriel met his end, his charging me to bring the amulet here and then to find the heir. "I _thought_ he'd be safe, I didn't ever intend to take this long…but if those lunatics can find _me_…I think I made a bad call," I glanced at Jauffre, who had kept incredibly quiet, drinking up everything I told him like a plant soaks up water.

He sighed heavily."Well, this is disturbing, but encouraging. I have here," Jauffre produced a piece of paper, "a message from Baurus..."

"Oh, so he's all right!" I perked up.

Jauffre arched his eyebrows but did not answer my interjection. "He says 'a girl by name of Ailara has the Amulet of Kings, and the task of bringing it to you. I will hold my post as instructed, pending further orders.' His letter confirms your story."

Otherwise I'd be dead by now, right? I know the circumstances are fishy, but I don't like being called a liar.

"Sit down, Ailirah," Jauffre picked up his chair, walking it around so I could use it.

I sat down, regarding the Grandmaster of the Blades. Baurus was right: you wouldn't think so to look at him – unless you know what to look _for_, that is. Jauffre turned to stare out the window above his reading table, his hands folded behind him. "I'm about to let you in on one of the great secrets of the Empire. I will trust you know not to talk about it to _anyone_."

"Yeah, sure," I nodded. I'd done a great job of keeping my mouth shut so far, even under interrogation.

"Almost thirty years ago, while I was still a Captain in the Emperor's Blades, Uriel called me to his private chambers. He was putting something in a basket. That something turned out to be a child, a baby boy. Uriel told me to take him somewhere safe, to tell no one about him. Uriel said nothing else, but I knew, looking at the child, that this was his son. From time to time he would ask about the child's progress, but less and less as the lad got older." Jauffre turned to lean on his desk, looking pensive, like a general preparing for a battle. "It seems Uriel foresaw this day, or this 'possible future' as he might well have called it. It means this illegitimate son is now heir to the throne. If he yet lives."

I stood up. "He has to." I shook my head when Jauffre gave me what felt too much like a pitying look. "If the Emperor foresaw this, then he foresaw that the kid would be okay. He _told_ me it was my job to find this heir and keep an eye on him. So he can't be dead yet." I shrugged.

Jauffre shook his head. "Then let us pray you are right."

"Tell me about him. I'll go and get him. I promised Emperor Uriel I would." Jauffre gave me a dubious look, tempered by appraisal. "I'm Fighters' Guild – have been since I was sixteen." I said coolly.

"And how old are you now?" I could tell he was asking to illustrate a point: that I was still a kid.

"Five and twenty summers. It'll be _six_ and twenty this year." I grinned at Jauffre's open surprise. "Lots of brothers means you don't grow up as fast," I grinned. "Don't worry, I'll find this prince. What's his name, do you know?"

"His name is Martin. He is a priest in the Chapel of Akatosh in Kvatch."

Damn. He _would_ be a clergyman – means he can barely tell the right end of a knife. Craaap.

"Well, it's a good thing I've done bodyguard detail before," I said and stood up. "I'll get moving now, I don't want to wait any longer than I have to." Not with lunatic assassins crawling around like roaches.

"Of course…" Jauffre looked uncomfortable, as if unsure what to say.

"But, I'm worried," I added, frowning.

"If they truly could track you," Jauffre said, surprising me by being on the same page I was, "they would no doubt have tried again. Still, I agree you seem to be a bit...high profile. However..."

I sighed. "I'm volunteering, it's okay," I sighed. We'll see if it's still okay, once my brothers find out I'm volunteering for dangerous stuff again. Maybe they'll listen to Jauffre, even if they won't listen to me.

"However," Jauffre continued as if I hadn't interrupted, though he looked a little heartened, "time is of the essence. We cannot wait for Baurus, or the others. And as Uriel trusted you..." I was sure Jauffre wanted to argue about the Sight's shortcomings, but to his credit did not.

He's right. We're short on time, not on enemies. If he's correct, and the attack was a fluke, then me traveling to Kvatch won't attract much attention, since so many of my contracts take place in Colovia. It's harder to ignore a contingent of Blades than one lone Fighters' Guild agent in her usual stomping grounds.

Well, let's get going – Kvatch isn't exactly a stone's throw from Chorrol, and I have a _lousy_ enough sense of direction that if I try to cut across county, I'm going to end up hopelessly lost, and unfashionably late. "Keep that safe, huh?" I motioned over my shoulder at the Amulet of Kings.

I feel better now that it's not in my pocket, but I feel worse now I know I'm racing against a bunch of crazy-ass assassins. I wish I knew more about them. I hate fighting the unknown.

--A--

It was a good thing I took my mission seriously, because the shit had already hit the ceiling by the time I arrived at the foot of the trail leading up to Kvatch. Except instead of the long, pretty, winding walk I knew, I found myself in the middle of a camp of refugees, screams, wails, and tears.

Kvatch itself stood like a broken crown on its hill, giving forth great billows of smoke.

"Hey, whoa – I'm looking for the priest…Brother Martin – is he here?" Oh please, Mara don't let him be up _there..._

"No! No priests! They didn't make it out!" the man prattled.

I took off at a a careening, furious sprint, ignoring the man blabbing about 'crazy women', not even looking at the terrain bouncing as I ran, heedless of anything except finding out why the city was on fire.

One possible conclusion was obvious, if a little paranoid: the assassins got here first...But what kind of fanatics have the resources to sack an entire city? I stopped as soon as the city gates came in sight, looking past the huddle of people.

_It _was huge, looming taller than the gates of the city, which were closed and probably barred on the other side. Massive arm-like spires of cracked, jagged rock had apparently exploded out of the ground, cracks and fissures running through the cracked, scorched ground - away from the solid-looking structures.

Between the up thrust arms a massive _thing_, like a tear in the fabric of the world, sat rimmed in fire. I looked upward. What little I could see of the sky looked oddly distorted, so I quickly looked back down, lest I get distracted.

The city guard and a woman in black were talking. Deep breath…I stopped two steps away when I realized what the moving things down by the…what is it? Is it a gate? Whatever it is, it's spitting out _Daedra_. I'm no mage, in fact, I'm a Mundane, no usable magicka at all, but I've seen Daedra before, and these were ugly little bastards – scamps and clannfear. The scavengers and hounds of the Daedric underworld.

"I've got it," the dark-haired Imperial woman declared languidly, raising her bow before letting off a shot that looked absolutely lazy. It hit an oncoming scamp and the thing pitched back, dead as a doornail. Wow – that's not bad… "We can't very well just stand here," she was saying, still sighting along her bow as I tromped up. "How long since your men went in…ugh. What _is_ all this?" she demanded disgustedly.

"A damned inconvenience," I answered shortly. "I'm looking for the priest, Martin," I announced to the group at large, several of whom were eyeing my battle axes, and one of whom I recognized vaguely. "I didn't see him in the camp."

"Not here, you won't find him," the head of the group declared. Oh, I should know his name...it starts with an S. Crap, I knew I ought to have paid better attention to the local guardsmen. "We can't get into the city," he explained to the Imperial. This close I could see her eyes were a startling shade of cat-green, almost unheard of in most people. She also looked like she was chewing on something she didn't like. "The damned gate is in the way. Look," the captain said, glancing from the Imperial back to me, "I sent in a patrol nearly half an hour ago, but no one's come out."

Well, I do have a job to do, and I'm known for not letting things get in my way. Even massive gates to who knows where, that spew out Daedra like a nose with a cold spews snot. "I'll go," I announced simply.

"_I'll_ go," the Imperial declared more loudly, giving me a look indicating she doubted very much that I was suited for this sort of work, even if she had the grace not to say it aloud.

"The way _I_ see it," I declared sourly, loosing my battleaxes from my belt, "you're a _ranged_ fighter – you'll be better of here, with them," I announced, beginning to twirl my axes with practiced effortless efficiency. It's also a graceful truck – totally useless in a fight, unless I'm only trying to scare someone off.

The Imperial wasn't impressed in the slightest, though her eyes followed the path of the weapons. "Yes, well, forgive me for saying but you haven't got the look of an arcane practitioner." Oh no, is that what she is? Stuffy mages, they make my stomach churn. Fetching know-it-alls. "And those are not well-spelled. If you go in there, you're facing the wastes of Oblivion itself. It is not for the inexperienced – particularly when the inexperienced is one person. Did you not hear what Matius said?" she demanded.

"Kh – stuff it," I snapped. "I'm Fighters' Guild and fully fetching qualified. This kind of thing is my _job_. I eat Daedra for breakfast and come back for seconds." I snorted. Not exactly true, but I'm not afraid of scamps and clannfear - unless the scamps bite through my armor, then it's a health concern. They've got poison teeth, some say. I've never tested the theory and I don't care to.

A moment later the Imperial laughed, shaking her head slightly.

"It's not funny," I announced flatly. Why is it no one takes me seriously? I've been totally professional, not even a hint of good humor and they're _still_ doubting me! I hate this! Now I really _am_ going to go through that damned Gate – just so they know they're _wrong_. Fetching _jekosiit_.

"Oh yes it is," the Imperial smiled, but some of the doubtfulness had dissipated. "We'll both go, then, as you're so determined," she inclined her head as it to be polite, but she grated on my nerves. I don't need to see her do it to know she's nasty with a weapon.

Her armor's weird too – dark leathers.

I nodded. All right – two are better than one. Even if she's getting on my nerves. I'm mature, I can admit that.

"It's your lucky day. It seems you have a pair of volunteers. Hold this spot – don't go anywhere, we'll be back soon," the Imperial announced calmly, unpinning her cloak as she moved to cross the makeshift barrier between us and the battlefield spanning the distance to the Gate and the city gates.

"Just the two of you, now wait a minute…" Matius demanded, as I followed the Imperial. If she wants to go first, she can be my guest.

"We have no time," she declared coolly, throwing her cloak over the barricade while striding forward.

I want armor like that. "No kidding." I agreed, trotting to catch up with her after giving Matius a 'there there you go' shrug and grin. "I like your style though," I nodded. A perfect sheet of ice. She'd be on my last nerve in a normal situation – but in a tight pinch, I'll bet she'll be good to have at my back. "I'm Ailirah," I held out a hand.

She didn't take it. "Call me Dagmar," she answered, grimacing at the name.

I grimaced as well. "_Dagmar_?" She doesn't look like a 'Dagmar'. She looks like some Millie-Jane Badass.

"I know," she shook her head.

"So, what are you? You're not Fighter's Guild. Arena?" I asked, keeping my eyes forward on the ever-growing maw of the Gate to…Oblivion, she'd said. Come to think of it, I've never seen or heard of anything like this. And if there's Daedra here to kill a prince, it means we're dealing with some kind of Daedric cult, and that's not really reassuring. In fact, on a scale of one to ten that's a _twelve_ on the bad-shit-counter.

"Mages' Guild," Dagmar grunted, though she showed some recognition at my name. Well, I was mentioned in the Courier, but as no one's stopped me for conducting business, I can only assume that Baurus or someone put in a couple good words for me, at some point or another. Otherwise, I ought to have had my ass arrested for drunk and disorderly and for escaping prison.

That's good - I have no desire to see that idiot Dunmer ever again.

Hmm. I'd better watch my step – are the Blades in the habit of throwing scapegoats to the wolves?

"I'm looking for family," Dagmar announced, volunteering unexpected information. "You?"

"Looking for a priest," I grinned as soon as the words left my mouth. I winked when Dagmar looked over at me, eyebrows eloquently arched. "And no, I can't look elsewhere," I added.

"Well, you might want to consider it…_damn_ that's a big sucker," she shook her head at the Oblivion Gate before us.

The air was getting steadily hotter, with a decidedly acrid tang that dried out the back of my throat and made my eyes burn. "That sums it up pretty well, Dags," I murmured then grinned. "You sure you want to go first?"

"Not really, no," Dagmar answered primly, though I think it was prim only because the Gate had her entire attention. "I'll be fine," she announced, more loudly, with extra confidence for the benefit of Matius and his men, before turning. "Give us more than just an hour! If we're not back by dark..." she made a slashing movement with her hand.

I gave the men a wave and tapped the heel of my hand against my forehead – Fighters' Guild hand sign for 'good luck', or just about any comment along that line. They perked up a bit, and one or two returned the gesture. "So," my tone shook slightly as we started to walk again. "How do we get in there?"

"Just walk through, like you would with a door," Dagmar answered calmly. "It shouldn't burn you, but just to be safe," she grabbed my arm tightly, and I felt something along my skin. Magicka, has to be.

"Yeah," I chuckled nervously, grinning in spite of the fact my stomach had started to shake. "I like safe too." Yeah – safety first is _very _important.

I closed my eyes and followed the pull Dagmar was exerting on my arm.

I hope Martin's okay. I wish I hadn't waited so long. I'd hate to think he's paying for my misjudgment.

--A--


	5. Chapter 5

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Five

--A--

Dagmar was right, in that it didn't hurt to cross through the Gate – it tingled, though and not in a nice way, like I had ants crawling up and down my back. Opening my eyes, I wished I could have left them _closed_. I've seen some harsh places. I've been to Black Marsh and found myself picked at by their oversized mosquitoes (those suckers are _huge_), I've been to both the jungle and desert regions of Elsweyr, where the only common ground between the two regions is the word 'hot'.

This place made both look like a holiday, and I would have happily swapped. Before us stood a massive, broken bridge, strewn with several charred shapes – bodies, I'm sure –and one horse. The horse looked like it had the harder death, judging by the streaks of blood leading towards it. I strongly suspect that if it's scamp food now, I don't want to go over there. They'll have broken into the horse's midsection and gorged on the innards, I just know it.

And I like horses. I bit my lip, unnerved. It's a paint horse, too. I learned to ride on a paint… "Where…what the _hell_?" I demanded, rearing my eyes away from the bridge, wishing, again, that I had left them closed. The Plane didn't seem capable of supporting human life. I'll bet everything – even my Silent Partner, should I ever get it back - that anything I find here will either eat me, or catch me until something that can comes along.

Dominating the landscape were massive channels of lava – giving the distinct impression, to the left and right, that we were on a little island, in a sea of lava. A massive tower shot out of the baked, cracked ground, black and sinister.

"Close enough..." Dagmar murmured, fingering her bow nervously. "Look out!" she barked and pivoted, bringing the weapon to firing position and letting a shaft fly.

I tore my eyes away from the scene before me to see what she was yelling about- inhaling a good deal of the dusty, acrid air as I did so, to scorch my lungs.

I readied my axes as the noise reached my ears. Whoops and shouts, hisses and high-pitched screams that made the blood in my toes chill. I took off at a run, heading straight for what looked like a hunting party, giving a might yell, which distracted the human-looking Daedra from their quarry, one lone man.

Sprinting past the running human I swung at the nearest Daedra, using the momentum of my free axe to rip the first weapon out of the clannfear's side. Sweat poured down my face, neck and back with only this slightest exercise. I'm going to need a cold bath as soon as I get out of here. Yet I have the nasty feeling that said bath is simply _not_ in the cards anytime soon.

It did not take long to finish off the cluster of Daedra, though they put up a hell of a fight. With Dagmar at a distance shooting as she could, and me with my battle axes wounding and killing anything in reach, they didn't have much of a chance. I think they were surprised, just a little, by the sudden appearance of a pair of human females.

"Hoo-waah," I panted giving my axes a shake to get any blood or remaining Daedra bits off them, turning to Dagmar once I was satisfied. "You weren't kidding!"

Dagmar had moved up several yards and was scanning the area, reminding me of a hunting bird keeping an eye out for some as yet unknown quarry. "I don't joke about this sort of thing. Where is the human?" she promptly turned as I pointed behind her.

The man had collapsed, and I trotted over to him, fiddling with my gear. I wear too much, but I succeeded in finding my canteen, and dripped a little bit into his mouth, so as not to choke him. His dry, cracked lips looked like they could use the moisture. "Hey," I said gently, "Come on back now…"

"Oi," Dagmar dispassionately nudged the man with her boot, "wake up, soldier." She knelt and rolled him off his belly-down position – which looked more comfortable than back down, in this place.

"You're…not much of a people person, are you?" I asked skeptically as she gave the soldier another shake.

"People skills won't work on these Dremora, I'm afraid, so don't even think about trying it. Here, wake up," she began to slap the soldier back to consciousness.

I have never met such a callus individual. "Hey! Oi! Enough with the slapping!" I grabbed her wrist to prevent her doing any more damage to the man.

Dagmar narrowed her eyes, but our clash was interrupted when the man in the ground came to. "Ah, see? It worked." Dagmar promptly dropped him.

"Ow!" the solider yelped, his hands going painfully for the back of his now-aching head.

"On your feet," Dagmar seized the man by wrist and upper arm and hauled him to his feet.

What kind of people is this woman used to dealing with?! "You don't just _smack_ injured people around!" I grit out, scowling. This woman's crazy. Forget what I said about having her at my back, I want her well away from me. Preferably well away in _front_ of me.

"Duly noted," Dagmar responded serenely, before returning her attention to the soldier. "What's your name, solider?" she asked, steadying him. A moment later her eyes flared pink, and continued to look like they were reflecting pink lights. It took a moment to remember which spell that was. Detect life. Her personality may be lacking in the milk of human kindness, but I've got to admit, that's one way to keep anything nasty from sneaking up on us. I gripped my axe shafts and began to chew on my lip.

Well, the one good thing about being here –and believe me, it's a stretch to call it a 'good' thing – is that it doesn't matter that I have a lousy sense of direction. There's nowhere to get lost, and only one obvious place to go. I'll just walk up to the tower and ask for directions. With my axes.

"Ilend…Vonius," the soldier looked from me to Dagmar.

I smiled as reassuringly as I could. "I'm Ailirah." There's no need to be rude, after all.

Dagmar gave me a dark look that plainly told me she wished I'd show a little more gravity for this situation.

Gravity hell – it's scary out here. If I don't crack some jokes, my courage is going to fail and I'm going to turn around and walk off. More like, turn tail and run like crazy. I'll never hear the end of it, but still.

"What happened? Where's the rest of the patrol?" Dagmar asked, unperturbed.

Vonius looked absolutely heartbroken, and I could see traces of shame, self-deprecation in his eyes. "They're dead," I murmured, but I don't think anyone heard me. "All or most, but they're dead." It's painfully apparent.

"Captain Matius sent us in to try and close the Gate. We were ambushed, trapped, and picked off. I managed to escape, but the others are strewn across that bridge," he motioned back at the bridge.

Looking back at the bridge, my jaw set with sympathy for Vonius and frustration at the situation. How do you deal with that kind of loss? And to survive it…it could drive a person mad, if what I'm seeing is any indication.

"They took Menien off to the big tower. You've got to save him!" Vonius grabbed Dagmar's arm, and she started, as if to pry his hand off, but stopped and turned it into a clumsy would-be reassuring pat. Well, maybe she' snot a lost cause after all. "I'm getting out of here!" Vonius' composure broke, changed to something like panic and he broke his grip on Dagmar's arm, his breathing, which had lulled to something more suitable for this climate, immediately picking up. He's going to pass out or ruin his lungs if he doesn't get that under control.

"Wait," I stated, holding my hands open, balancing my axe hafts against my shoulders, between thumbs and forefingers.

"Go." Dagmar cut clearly over me. "Matius still holds the road out of Kvatch. Report back to him that we're still alive.

"We may need more time," I added. It's impossible to tell how much time has passed on the other side, and I begin to wonder if time doesn't move funny here in Oblivion. It wouldn't surprise me – everything _else_ about this place is wrong, so why to the passage of time?

"The Captain is still holding the barricade? I figured I was the last one left alive…thank Stendarr," he swallowed hard, but looked a little better. It's always better to have something to do, when you're having a bad day – so you can't brood. It's like a scrape when you're a kid – without some distraction you'll worry at it, make it worse. It hurts, but you just don't leave it alone. My knees are proof.

"I…" he looked from Dagmar to me. Yeah, we don't exactly inspire confidence, but we're the best people for the job. We volunteered – and volunteers are better than conscripts. Not that conscripts don't have their place – they're just a last resort.

Dagmar smiled thinly, and patted Vonius arm. "Oh, don't worry about us." She smirked at me and I smirked back. Who'd have thought we'd wind up on the same page? "We can look after ourselves _just_ fine."

Thank you, Dagmar. I'm so glad we're all being sensible about this.

"Of you go," she gave Vonius a pat on the shoulder and I nodded as Vonius left.

Walking over to Dagmar, once he was out of earshot I sighed, rubbing my sweaty neck and wondering whether this was summer or winter, or whether these dead lands _had_ seasons to begin with. "We could have used his help." Yeah, it would have been willing, but I'm sure he would have broken at some point – which would be dangerous for us. I think what I really want to know is, is this a sympathy act or sheer practicality. Because I'm leaning towards the latter, and suspecting this girl doesn't have a truly altruistic bone in her body. She's intense, though – it's like standing too close to a howling gale.

"Yes." Dagmar agreed. "Didn't you see the look about him? He doesn't have anything left to fight with – not in this place, anyway." she waved at our surroundings. "Taking him with us would have just gotten him killed…and maybe us along with him. Come on – the big tower."

I knew it was a practicality issue – but I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks so. I consider myself highly sympathetic…so long as sympathy doesn't get me killed. I've got people who want me to come home – no doubt so they can smother me some more. Better somewhat smothered and squished out of shape than _dead_.

"Um, so," I said as we picked our way forward. Rusty remnants of massive gates that seemed to serve no purpose other than to break up the landscape and give things places to hide dotted the path Dagmar picked out.

She looked like she was sucking on lemons, and a moment later murmured, "I wish Gogron was here," distractedly. I don't think she realized she was worrying out loud. Then she sighed. "So we're in Oblivion," she shook her head, as if she couldn't believe she was actually here.

"Yeah. Any idea whose?" I seized on the topic for conversation – except for the sound of the lava bubbling and boiling, and the dry wind rattling the local plant life the silence hung heavy. I'm sure it'll get louder once the local wildlife figures out we're here, but still. It's spooky, and it's not even dark. I didn't think you could have this kind of spooky ambiance without lots of dark shadows.

And cobwebs, mustn't forget the cobwebs.

Actually, I can hazard a guess at where we are – it won't be one of the nice Daedric Prince's realms either. I'm half afraid which one it really is. I have a niggling suspicion it belongs to none other than Mehrunes Dagon – only he would have such a nasty place that still allow humans to survive long enough to get into trouble in it. Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction, Ambition and Revolution. All of which would explain his involvement, and why there's this bigass Gate in front of a Tamrielic city.

You know, there's something else niggling at the back of my head, about Mehrunes Dagon, and I don't remember…something about Saint Alessia and the Amulet…oh crap – I _can't_ remember!

"Well," Dagmar mused aloud as we walked, me fuming silently. "Accepting the fact we're not choking and suffocating in blinding, brutal, unending agony, there are no insane residents, and no maze gardens, I can safely rule out Malacath, Sheogorath, and Boethiah's realms. It's probably not Nocturnal's or Hircine's…" good grief, she sounds like she swallowed _The_ _Doors of Oblivion._ "My best guess? Mehrunes Dagon…he takes the ash and waste to an extreme…or so I thought."

Craaaap. I knew it. Why couldn't it be something a little fluffier?

A better question is: what's Mehrunes Dagon want with Tamriel when he's got such a lovely spot already picked out?

On second that, that's not funny, because I can answer the question _very easily_. "Damn," I announced succinctly. "So you're Dagmar," I mused after the silence got uncomfortable. The name just does _not_ fit.

She shrugged. "And you're Ailirah, the infamous Ailirah, who escaped the Imperial Prison. Unless I am much mistaken," Dagmar looked over at me, her expression clearly indicating she was sure she was _not_ mistaken.

I felt a guilty expression creep across my face. "The orc started it." I grunted.

Dagmar smiled, rather as though she actually believed me. "I'd believe it," she nodded. "Incoming," she pointed as the sounds of something heavy scrabbling around permeated the air.

"Oh good - I was getting bored," I announced, more out of bravado than because I actually was looking forward to the fight. I took off at a jog and met the Daedric scout, or so he seemed to me, halfway

Here's one scout who won't tell anyone we're here.

--A--


	6. Chapter 6

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Six

--A--

Halfway through scrabbling up huge chunks of rock, picking our way through the lava pool riddled landscape, Dagmar started to hum. Normally, I don't mind this kind of noise. In this case, though, I only caught one note in three, so it was not only disjointed, it wasn't readily recognizable, therefore I found it highly distracting. "What _are_ you humming?" I asked, pausing to sit on a massive piece of what looked like collapsed wall, after scraping my knuckles yet _again_. Bloody and painful I blew on them, wishing I wasn't a Mundane, so I could patch them up.

On top of which, I'm sweating like a man – I grew up with brothers and I swear, I never saw them _this_ sweaty and gross. Touching my chainmail, I jerked my hand away – even the rings were hot to the touch, and while the padding I wore beneath the mail was killing me, I realized it also kept the hot metal off my poor skin. I don't know which is worse.

"Hn?" Dagmar blinked, looking up at me, eyes narrowed, sweat sliding of her brow and into her eyes, causing her to rub them a moment later. She looked like she was holding up better than I. Maybe it's because the Nord in me likes cold weather. Except this place isn't half as humid as Leyawiin, and I _like_ living in Leyawiin just fine. She crouched to the ground, hidden from sight.

With a sigh I slipped from my perch to crouch on one knee, nearby.

"That song, what is it?" I repeated patiently.

Up close it showed she was not handling the environment as well as I thought. Sweaty and gross as I am, Dagmar's delicately colored skin turned crimson under the unforgiving barrage of heat upon heat, and there was something in her expression that made me think she was fighting a headache. Poor thing. Mages' Guilders just _aren't_ used to roughing it.

Opening my canteen, I took a sip before offering it over to her. This is because, in my opinion, people won't let you let them have the first swig, in a hostile environment. They try and be tough. However, watch someone takes a swig and when they hand over the canteen you follow suit. I don't know why, but that's how it is. Speaking of how it is, the answer is 'hot and tasting vaguely unpleasant', as if the environment somehow leeched through into the water. Still, it's better than nothing. Any Fighters' Guild member can tell you the first thing to remember in a bad situation like this is: _drink water_. Meaning you have to carry some with you in the first place.

Dagmar grimaced, shaking her head, then winked, holding her hand up. As she blew into it, the clear breath frosted into her hand, sparkling with ice crystals that formed resolutely, despite the heat. She struggled for a moment, then the ice mass broke, and she handed half to me. It started to melt the instant she stopped pouring magicka into it, but it was far better than the stuff in my canteen, so I accepted and began to slurp happily on it.

Aaah. That's better.

"It's better for you," Dagmar noted between bouts of sucking on her ice, "it doesn't get warm and doesn't taste bad."

No kidding. "Thank goodness for magicka, eh?" I smirked. "Thanks."

She nodded and closed her eyes, focusing on getting the water where it needed to go before it melted, joining the rest of the runoff on the ground in a damp dark patch.

I let the icy water ease the parched feeling in my throat and the sting there as well. The air is so hot to breathe it makes my lungs hurt. I'm surprised neither of us is bleeding from the nose yet, it's that dry. I looked ruefully at the ice for moment, wishing I could somehow breathe it when Dagmar answered.

"It's a nervous habit." She grimaced then shook her head, as if warding off bothersome thoughts.

"Nervous habit?" I repeated. I might not like her personality, but she strikes me as the sort of woman with steel nerves and iron will. Not the sort of person you try to out-stubborn.

"Mm," she nodded, getting to her feat with a groan, one hand moving towards her breastbone, as if she could massage her lungs somehow.

"Yeah, it's pretty bad," I agreed as we started to walk. "I bite my nails." When I can get to them. Therein lies the reason I usually wear gloves - it's not to protect my hands from the elements, or to keep them protected from rubbing calluses from my weapons, or even normal wear and tear damage from my job. It's to keep me form biting nails down to bloody nubs. It only gets that bad when I'm nervous.

This definitely constitutes a nerve-wracking situation, and only my unwillingness to show any less gumption than Dagmar kept me from really getting worked up. "Here was me thinking I saw bad back in the Imperial Prison. Or that time I went into the desert region of Elsweyr with Dad," I added thoughtfully.

That was actually a fun trip, once I got a head wrap, like the Khajiit who live in the deep desert wear to keep sun and sand at bay. I burned unmercifully and peeled like a snake molting for the longest time. Einar had to abandon his beard, because it made him look like he was all scaly and icky. It was weird seeing his actual face, without the heavy beard.

That was the trip where I learned about Elswerian story drums…

"So what's an escapee from the Imperial Prison want with a priest?" Dagmar interrupted my thoughts back to happier days and more comfortable temperatures.

"He's a friend," I said a little to innocuously. Dammit – I need to learn how to lie better.

"Hell of a friend," Dagmar grunted, levering herself over a rock and pausing to check the area before continuing up.

"What about you? Mages' Guild? I mean, I thought you people stuck to nice safe guildhalls and dusty old books. You're a little…better acquainted with the real world…and dealing with it. That's a mean aim you've got." I shook my head. I'm a patchy archer. It's not my proficiency, though give me a shortbow and I _might_ be able to hit something, it I hold my mouth right. If it's a horde of enemies coming at me, I'd rather just use Silent Partner.

Dagmar chuckled. "I got tired of my ass stuck in a chair."

"Sounds like Roge – Rogerik, my brother," I chuckled. Rogerik _hates_ being penned up. When he gets cagey he goes into the forge to help Einar. You can always tell when Roge's halfway through a project, because he swears almost nonstop. He's going to end up with some nasty disease of the _mouth_, with all the crap he spews out of it. That's kind of the pot calling the kettle black, actually.

"Don't stop talking," Dagmar prompted simply, her eyes flickering back toward me. "There's something following us."

"Friendly?" I asked with a grin, fingering my axe hafts. I'd forgotten how comfortable these weapons are to use. These are _perfect_ for hacking into Daedric plate – something you don't see a whole lot of back home.

"You wish," Dagmar purred.

I shivered despite the heat. She's a little scary. Something around the eyes isn't right.

"Don't move until I say, I want this thing to get in close." She flexed a hand, calling a spell.

I listened until I heard the soft clunk of boots on the ground. "Whoa!"

Dagmar darted past me in what looked like a practiced pounce, in the Daedra's face before he could react, frost blossoming virulently from where her bare hand struck his breastplate.

He knocked her aside with an ill-timed sweep of his arm just as I launched forward, swinging both axes in a practiced arc. There was a nasty, grinding sound as the axed punched through into the tender Daedra beneath the metal shell, and doubly so when I wrenched the blades free to repeat the gesture as he fell with a clatter.

Dagmar was still on the ground, unwilling to put herself in my way, once I got those blades swinging. Tossing my axes over my shoulders I shook my head. "You could have just shot him," I nodded to the bow slung over one shoulder.

"Yes, but this was easier," Dagmar responded.

I fail to see _how_ it was easier, but I took her word for it. "There's the Tower," she mused. "So how come we keep walking around in damn circles?" she scowled.

There. It's easier for _her_ that way, as _I_ do the dirty work. Good thing I don't mind, sounds like business as usual to me. "Don't look at me, I've been following you. I get lost easy. Terrible sense of direction," I added ruefully. If I blushed a little at the revelation of this shortcoming, it went unnoticed, since I probably look like a steamed lobster as it is. Damn it's hot out here. I will never complain about hot climates ever again. It's weak sauce compared to this.

Dagmar made a face, and I could tell what she was thinking: this is _not_ the time to tell me that.

Oh well, we all have our faults. How was I supposed to know she was following me?

--A--

It took some doing, but we finally found our way up to the Tower, stopping twice more in sheltered places to rest a moment and suck on ice chunks. The heat was beginning to make me feel queasy and lethargic. If we don't find something soon, I'm going to lie down, take a nap and never wake up.

Then again, I suppose I'd never get to sleep, hot as it is. Plus, I'm on a job. I can't just give up, no matter how appealing it's looking right now. I hate these moral dilemmas.

The heavy doors were, fortunately, beautifully balanced, and swung open without a sound. Dagmar slipped in first, though the narrowest gap possible – a gap too small for someone of a stouter build to get through, so I wound up pushing the door further open by myself.

Once I reached where she stood, she grabbed my shoulder, pulling me to kneel, screened by darkness, at the head of a short flight of steps.

If I thought it was hot outside, it was almost worse inside. At least there were breezes – hot and scorching, but still moving air – outside. The tower's interior blistered with heat, dark shadows hanging like curtains so thick I couldn't see more than a few feet ahead. The air was stifling, and I felt absolutely sick, surprised I wasn't retching up whatever I'd had for breakfast. It seemed like such a long time ago, though the very thought of food made me even more will. "Are you all right? You look a little pale." Dagmar declared, as if noting that it was dark in here.

Looking over I grinned wryly. "You should see yourself," I hissed back. "You sure you don't need a lie down?" I offered. Dagmar's pale complexion shone like a pearl in black velvet – well, if a pearl was splotchy-pink and sweaty.

She reached up and picked a few straying strands of hair off her face. "Right. There's four of them moving around in there – stay here, I'll be right back."

"Oi!" I grabbed her arm before she could slither off, and she scowled, her elegant eyebrows eloquent.

How do you learn tricks like that? My best eyebrow trick is to pucker them when I get miffed or confused.

"Unless you can see in the dark," she hissed, prying my hand off and cast it back at me, "we haven't time for this. Stay put." she stood up, half-crouched and unshouldered her bow, scowling into the darkness.

"I hate you!" I grunted, holding my ground.

"Imagine what that means to me," Dagmar grunted softly. I don't think she meant me to hear it, though I don't think she meant it any more than I did, because she gave an amused snort a moment later. "Wait."

"What?" I blinked. "You having second thoughts?"

"Yes, second thought: you go that way," she pointed to our left. Now, the tower itself interior seemed to be comprised of rings, like the trunk of a tree, the entryway in which we crouched gave way to a hall running in either direction, and then to another room we couldn't see, because of the short staircase and the way the archways to it were positioned. "There's at least one, maybe two. I don't want them coming up behind me," Dagmar reasoned.

Hey, as long as I'm doing something, I'm happy. "Smart girl," I approved, grinning and slipping forward, soft-footed down the stairs and slipped into the darkness, like slipping into water. I never heard Dagmar move, though when I looked back she no longer stood where I'd left her. Sneaky-feet.

I, however, found plenty to keep me occupied. A moment after realizing Dagmar was already on the move, a commotion started in the main room. A moment later the clanging of heavy armor reached my ears, accompanied by rough, uncultured voices spewing a teeth-breaking garble that passed for language.

The meaning, however, was pretty clear, even if I got fuzzy on the details. _We'll circle around – this way_.

"Greetings from Nirn!" I declared cheerfully, once the two Daedra lumbered past me, so intent on finding the sniper – for that was what I was sure Dagmar was doing – they completely missed me, standing quietly off to one side of the corridor. I couldn't believe that trick worked, but it did, though I had no time to ponder it.

Wham. Axes cut through the heavy plate of one of the Daedra, who took the killing blow meant for me, coming from his friend when I wrenched the blades free, swinging him into the path of the mace as I did so.

The other Daedra ignored the fact that he had just turned his friend's head into mush as I swung my freed axes to catch the next blow.

Now, I'm not very tall, and while I'm strong, I'm not as strong as any of my brothers, or these Daedra. So when I found myself in a competition of strength I realized I had seconds to figure something out. Kicking the offender in sensitive areas was not an option – too much damn plate.

I pivoted, his mace grinding along my axe hafts. As he overbalanced, I dropped one axe, setting him off-balance, which freed the other. The other came down in a blur as the first axe hit the ground with a tremendous clatter, the second axe finding a mark in the Daedra's neck. Fortunately, most of the spatter was deterred by his helmet – though that one little unguarded target was enough to kill him. He hit the floor with a sonorous clang. I trotted over, scooping up my axe and bursting into the main room.

Dagmar was on the floor and with a yell that made the Daedra menacing her turn with a 'what the Nirn?!' expression on his face, I set into him. My axes hit him square between the shoulder blades as he tried to turn around and Dagmar let out a shriek that would had scared _no one _and fumbled with her bow.

The Daedra fell a moment later, an arrow in his throat, and my axes in his back. Planting a foot on his shoulder, I levered the weapons free, giving them a good shake. They're really getting gross – I'd love to be able to stop and clean them, but it's just not practical right now. "See?" I asked conversationally my voice echoing in the vast cavernous reaches of the Tower, which is a lot bigger than it looks from the outside. "I'm not a kid."

"Right," Dagmar nodded. Somewhat to my surprise she accepted the hand up I offered her, groaning softly, as she massaged her lower back, grimacing in discomfort.

Heh – you want uncomfortable? Try wearing chainmail like mine. All these padded clothes? I'm boiling over here. We trotted into the next set of rooms, through the main room. I nearly passed out as the heat got worse.

Oh sweet Mara help me get out of here in once piece!

I walked into Dagmar, who stopped suddenly. Something apparently caught her eye, since she moved forward slightly, squinting into the darkness, waving me to stay put. I thought she looked pale to begin with, but she had turned slightly paler upon entering this oversized oven. Now the color truly drained from her face, so fast I thought she was going to faint, as she took on the color of cold porridge. "What do you see?" I asked nervously.

Dagmar shook her head slowly, her eyes remaining fixed, jaw set.

Squinting I realized what I had missed. The place was dark, but I could still see a little. More now that we were in this side chamber. The smell was fantastic, and full of things I can't even begin to identify. One of those components happened to be providing the light present. Burning human corpses, all of which looked like they'd had the blood drained out of them, pickled and looking like old weather stretched over bony frames.

My stomach lurched and I let out a groan in the back of my throat. This is too disgusting. I didn't let my mind take in any more of the horrific details of mass butchery. I simply resolved that it was _not_ going to continue, if I could do anything about it. We've got to close this damn Gate, before Matius sends in anymore people. "Do these Daedra..."

"Dremora," Dagmar corrected softly. "They're Dremora, the human-shaped ones."

"Yeah, them – do they…eat humans?" I asked nervously.

Dagmar looked over at me. "And anything else," she answered. "Best we don't get caught. It would be…unpleasant."

I grimaced and then took her by the elbow. "Come on – let's get the hell out of here."

Dagmar nodded and pointed. "There's a door. Just there."

"Then let's take it," I trotted forward, axes at the ready, trying to ignore the smell of something acid that kept tickling my nostrils. I can't see Mehrunes Dagon as much of a gardener. I get the nasty feeling that if he figures into all this weirdness…we are _really_ in the shit.

Knee deep and sinking.

--A--


	7. Chapter 7

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Seven

--A--

"Oh _dammit_!" I shouted in pure frustration, swinging my axes at the door. Rather than sink in, they clanged off sonorously, throwing me off balance.

"Will you watch where you're swinging those?!" Dagmar shouted, the color high in her face.

I blushed, or at least, my cheeks felt a little hotter. "Oh wow…" I could have killed her, flailing around like that. Woops. "Sorry Dags," I ginned earnestly. "Accident."

"_It's Dagmar_," she snarled softly, picking herself up off the ground, this time ignoring my helping hand.

"Oh…right…" I backed up a little as _Dagmar_ regained her composure. Fighting our way up through the main shaft and the surrounding halls took a heavy toll on us both. I was waiting for us to start steaming, as sweat evaporated in this heat, but so far no go.

"Move over." Dagmar knelt and poked a finger into the lock, and began to address it, but not in any language I recognized. Spellsigns, because the lock kept clicking, refusing to open. Swearing under her breath about inconvenience and crude methodology, Dagmar produced a handful of lock picks and worked her way, snapping them each in turn until she simply threw up her hands and got back to her feet. "Let's go take a better look around. This can't be the only way out," she rubbed the back of her neck, looking tired.

Mustering my fortitude I faked a grin, looking around, forcing my eyes not to linger on corpses, flaming bodies, or pools of blood. Really, I was simply skimming over most of the room. It was a lot of work to ignore the fountains of what looked like blood. These Daedra are crazy. "I'll go left."

"See you on the other side." Dagmar got to her feet laboriously.

I did not put a hand on the wall – I didn't trust it not to contain hidden spikes, hooks, spines or other nasty surprises.

"Hey! I found it!" the door was slightly hidden – you couldn't see it from the entryway, but it was also heavy-looking.

Dagmar appeared and reached out, touching the door, just barely dragging her fingers across it.

The hot blast of air actually felt cool as it raced into the room from the wastes outside. The door didn't lead to another room, instead it led to a little, narrow bridge, which led in turn to another tower, smaller than the main spire. The wind raced across the bridge, which had no railings or handholds. With the way the tower itself creaked oddly, it was hard not to imagine it was the _bridge _creaking so mournfully. My heart sank to my knees then finished its way to my toes when Dagmar gulped and looked back at me.

"Wow…put rocks in your pockets, huh?"

Dammit. I was hoping one of us had a little confidence in the situation. "That pretty much sums it up. You think it's _safe_?" It doesn't look safe. In fact, I propose we carry on looking for _other_ doors, _better_ doors until we find one, or prove this is a last resort. The way I see it, there's bravery and stupidity. Guess which this is.

"Safe?" Dagmar scoffed, edging slightly forward. "Hell no. Necessary…? Yeah. Let me go first."

Be my guest, but in the hopes of appearing brave… "You sure…I can…you know?" I shrugged uncomfortably.

Dagmar eyed me closely, taking in my stockier build then shook her head. "Yeah, I'm sure." Dagmar crouched low and began to climb nimbly forward.

I closed my eyes and then opened them, almost on all fours, my knees knocking into the bridge as I scooted, painstakingly forward.

I glanced over the edge once, immediately wishing I hadn't.

Dagmar stopped us at the door, and waved a hand before her eyes. She must be using another detect life spell.

"See anything?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Not at this range. Shh." Motioning me silent, she opened the door, slipping in, shadowlike.

Nodding, I followed, trying not to jingle too loudly.

Dagmar looked around, left right, up, down. What do you _really_ do for a living? I have never seen a mage with this kind of…well, call it professionalism of the adventuring sort. She's more comfortable with those weapons in her hands than any magicka. Not ignoring the fact that most people forget about looking up. Not that looking up revealed anything more than corpses, suspended from the ceiling. It looked like they might be hung like that so their blood could drain…

Oh, I don't need to think about that.

Dagmar snapped softly to get my attention and pointed upwards, then held up two fingers. A moment later sound floated down to us and it took alto of restraint not to take off in the sounds' general direction. A human shout, and the garbled sound of a rough, uncouth voice jeering in common.

Forget prudence, dammit. I took off at a trot, heading up the ramp that wound about the spire, which itself was built like the stalk of a plant, looking oddly organic. Not like a Telvanni structure, but…I dunno. Nasty.

I identified the Dremora, shouting and swinging axes at him as soon as I could launch myself forward, once the floor evened out. With another yell I hacked into the Dremora, not exactly relishing the sound of the axes grinding in his plate mail, but at the same time not sorry to see the fire go out of his eyes when he finally hit the floor.

I hit him again, just to be safe, then turned to find Dagmar already climbing Khajiit-like up onto the bars of the cage. "Who are you?" she asked quite calmly.

"Menien Goneld," the soldier replied, looking from Dagmar to myself as I wandered up.

Bingo.

He was trapped in a cage, suspended over a hole in the floor and a very long drop. I looked back at the wall. You know, I'll bet that weird contraption over there opens the bottom of the cage, sending the unfortunate prisoner screaming to his…and Dremora eat people too…

Don't finish that thought – either of them. It's not worth it. "No wait! Don't! You're just wasting time!" the soldier shook his head.

"What time?" I asked practically, gently. "We could have been here for days already. Let Dagmar have a look, we'll get you out." Reasoned argument sometimes helps, but I knew from his expression this was not one of those times.

Dagmar gave a short sigh, as if I had acted exactly as she expected me to, but I ignored it. It's not necessary to leave him here, particularly as we've just hit a dead end.

"No! You don't understand!" Goneld barked, gripping the bars on his cage until his swarthy skin turned white around the knuckles.

"What don't we understand?" Dagmar demanded calmly, hopping off the cage and landing neatly near where I stood.

"You _must_ get to the top of the large tower..." he began, swallowing hard.

We'd love to, but the damn door is locked. I wandered over to Dagmar and began to fidget for my canteen. The poor guy's probably not had anything for several hours at least. He's starting to look pretty bad, now that I really look.

"The Sigil Keep, they call it," Goneld continued. "It's what keeps the Oblivion Gate open! Find the Sigil Stone. Remove it, and the Gate will close! Hurry! The Keeper has the key - you must get the key!" Goneld argued vehemently.

"We can still get you out!" I argued firmly, stepping forward again. "He's not going anywhere…"

"Don't be daft, girl!" Goneld protested.

I heard something, practicality immediately taking over. I moved to the ramp and peered down. Shit, they've caught up with us. "Um…D-Dagmar…_Dags_?" I asked nervously as one of the Dremora pointed upwards. Oh shit, that's more than two or three…

"Tch." She silenced me and turned back to Goneld.

Um, those Dremora are coming up that _ramp_ really fast…_toofast_!

"Dags!" I shouted, swinging hard at the Dremora as he popped into range. Idiot - you _never_ charge someone with the high ground. "They've got us pinned!" I planted a foot on the Dremora's shoulder, pushing him free, backing up as his companions had to move and dodge as he slid limp ad boned fish down the ramp. I can't hold this ramp, I really can't.

"Don't panic!" Dagmar barked forcefully. "Stay put!"

"The hell you say!" I barked, before realizing she meant Goneld, not me. Moving forward, slashing at one Dremora, my axe skipped across his plate, knocking him off balance as the second blade hit the other, lodging firmly in his chest. I fought and jerked and struggled, only looking away when Dagmar screamed.

A truly terrified cream.

I redoubled my efforts, taking a gamble, dispatching one Dremora two-axed and the other the same way, to see Dagmar struggling, hanging over the edge of the floor, with a Dremora menacing her, one foot on her shoulder as she struggled to resist the push towards empty air.

He lurched as Dagmar suddenly grabbed his ankle with one hand, kicking to dislodge her and missing, his heel hitting the floor instead of Dagmar herself.

Surging forward I brought my axes up, intending to sweep him off to one side, so I wouldn't inadvertently sweep Dagmar over when the Daedra finally came loose. "Oh no you don't!" _wham_. I felt the impact up to my elbows and grunted as I swung him to my right, over the edge and out into space he seemed to hang for a moment, but I didn't watch his fall. I dropped my axes with a clatter, grabbing onto Dagmar as securely as I could.

Dammit – Goneld's cage is in the way…craaap… "Come on! Climb up!" I growled as I tried to heave Dagmar to safety.

Dagmar yelped in pain. "Wait, wait," she panted. "My shoulder…" I stopped the pull and merely held her weight. She looked back over her shoulder, craning her neck, looking exhausted and absolutely worn out. My arms tried to shake and shudder, but I stilled the motion. I will _not_ drop her. I won't. I can't.

"Okay – this is how it is," she looked up at me and let some of the tension out of her shoulders. "I need you to swing me Ailirah, no listen," she argued firmly when I tried to argue. "I need you to help me swing, if I do it from here, on my own, I'll just drop to the bottom. But if you help me, I can make to the ramp…okay? So take my wrists, and let me hang…"

She began shifting, and I moved, letting her turn so she was facing the same way I was, dangling below Goneld's cage. It was awkward for me, but doable. I think I see what she's planning…if I do, she's _nuts_.

"…now we _swing_." With that and a grunt, she began to swing her legs, back and forth, like a pendulum. I did what I could to stay balanced and help.

"Now!"

I let go without question. Throw her timing and she _will _plummet to her death.

I scrambled up, grabbing my weapons and hopping over Dremora corpses as I hurried down to find Dagmar limping a little, halfway between wherever she'd landed and the top platform. "Are you okay?" I grabbed her elbow, searching her face. "You're not hurt?"

"No," Dagmar shook her head composedly.

"Oh, you're crazy…damn." I leaned against the wall and banged the back of my head gently against it, wanting to cry from stress and heat and general discomfort. Now that the Dremora wasn't trying to kill me, I could feel aches and pains and what felt like pulled muscles in my arms.

"I know... I've never tried that before..." Dagmar said as if pointing out an unexpected aberration in some experiment.

"Aw…" I groaned.

"Come on," Dagmar patted my shoulder before glided up the spiraling ramp.

"Come on she says…I got stuck with the crazy one…" I moaned softly, dragging myself back up the ramp towards Goneld.

"You're still here?" he demanded, scowling as Dagmar walked over to the dead Dremora Keeper.

I walked over to Goneld, looking at his cage. "Let's get you out of here," I declared.

"Well yes, I don't have the key," Dagmar announced dispassionately.

"No! You haven't time," Goneld hissed.

"But we can use the extra..."

"_Listen_ to me, girl," Goneld reached through the bars, grabbing my shoulder, glaring at me. "Those Daedra aren't attacking Kvatch for no reason – they're _looking_ for someone. Now, you'd better close this Gate and _find_ that poor bastard before _they _do…'cause they won't be wanting him for any good reason. Get going!" he gave me a push.

"Look, I don't…" How many people am I going to lose like this? "Don't be fatalistic!" I argued.

"Look girl, you'd better grow up some more if you want to keep playing this game. I'm one man – the people of Kvatch are hundreds! Now move your ass!" he pointed as his tone took on a sharp bite.

"Come on," Dagmar announced, grabbing my arm as she shunted me towards the door.

"But we can't…"

"He's made his choice. It's a brave one, and you're cheapening it." Dagmar snapped coldly.

"But..." I protested. Stopping, she rolled her eyes, before sighing. I know I'm cheapening a sacrifice, but that doesn't mean the sacrifice is necessary in this case…

But he said they're looking for someone…

"It's poison. It works very quickly. You won't feel anything." Dagmar was saying.

If they're looking for someone…Goneld might be more right than he knows, even if it's not a nice thing to say. I closed my eyes. "You can't just..." I meant this for my benefit. I can't just stand here and waste time. He's right. I have to get to Martin first. I can't afford to stall here anymore.

"Do you want me to shoot him now, then?" Dagmar snapped, evidently thinking I was being overly pathetic. "We have to go. Now. Think about if you like, just be sure and catch up." She strode over to the ramp and down it.

Sighing I followed, pausing only to pick up her fallen dagger. I was sure it was hers, it's not Daedric. The name _Sufferthorn _glittered, etched into the beautiful blade.

"You dropped this," I said once I'd caught up with Dagmar.

She stopped and looked shocked, gingerly taking the knife and rubbing her thumb against the pommel. "Thank you…" she said blankly, looking up in genuine surprise.

"It's special?" I asked.

Dagmar nodded, her eyes fixed on the blade. "It was a gift from my uncle," she answered.

Ah. A practical uncle – great choice of gift.

"Buck up," she clapped my shoulder, a little awkwardly. "If Menien is right we'll be back on Nirn before anything else can go wrong."

"Don't say that," I whined, "you'll jinx us…"

--A--


	8. Chapter 8

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

EDIT: Omega Gilgamesh noticed a massive set of typos, which have been summarily corrected

--A--.

Chapter Eight

--A--

Dagmar was right we ran into nothing between the bridge, which was a nightmare in a nightmarish land to cross – all the way through the locked door, to which the Keeper's key did indeed belong, and up into the crown of the tower.

It looked like something volcanic, the way the floor was textured, the same slightly organic feel as the tower in which we'd found Goneld. While Dagmar seemed happy to look around perplexedly, like a Mage with a puzzle, I was not so entranced. Green windows. Nasty floor. We're moving on. "How many?" I demanded briskly.

"Five," Dagmar nodded, apparently pleased with my return to professionalism.

Professional my ass, I'm in a hurry to get out of here. It's important. I've never failed to complete a mission. I have no intention of starting now.

Ignoring the three-story architecture of the main room, I started forward, clattering up the iron twisting staircases to take on the Dremora. Strong and agile, they're not particularly _bright_.

Gaining the summit of the room, I blinked at the flaming stone, suspended above what looked like a stone fountain. The stone itself looked like cooling lava, contained in a sphere, hanging there like weird fruit, suspended in midair. "Is it safe?" I asked nervously. Goneld said all we had to do was take the stone, and the Gate would collapse. However, it struck me here that if the Gate collapsed, we might go with it. I'd hate to be stuck here.

"No idea." Dagmar declared, frowning thoughtfully. "Here, hang onto my arm," she offered her left elbow. "I've never done this."

Oh craaap. I took her arm tightly in one hand and refused to slacken my grip when she gave her elbow a shake, to tell me to let the blood in her arm circulate. She took a moment, warding herself against who knows what all, then she reached up, took the stone in her protected hand and pulled. Like a cork coming loose the stone suddenly popped free of its invisible moorings, and shrunk in stages to the size of a walnut.

"Well…?" Dagmar asked the room at large, looking around.

"Nothing happened…" I didn't finish the sentence. Beneath our feet the floor began to vibrate, then to shake, and a moment later it felt as if the entire tower was coming down on our heads, rumbling and groaning like a tree caught in a high wind. Dagmar shouted something and I screamed impulsively and pulled her back, barely saving her from a falling piece of the roof.

We were cast backwards and everything went black.

--A--

Cool wind tickled my face, chilling me to the bone, but as my skin was so hot, I didn't mind. The air smelled like grass, nighttime, rain and…smoke. "Are you alive?" I rasped, choking on the cleaner, cooler air as I began to tremble, though whether from the change of environment, stress, or relief I'm not sure.

"I think so." Dagmar groaned where she lay, off to one side. "You?"

I giggled feebly. "Same…" It's funny. People always giggle, or laugh when bad situations loosen up. It's almost as if we're telling the rest of the world _HEY IT'S GREAT TO BE ALIVE!_ Giggling again I took a deep breath of wholesome, home-grown air.

I opened my eyes to see the night sky, full of clouds, their bellies reflecting the fires from inside Kvatch, the darker smoke spiraling up to greet them. Neither moons, nor stars showed, but the clouds promised rain, for which I was glad. It'll help cool me off, get the smells of Oblivion out of my hair and clothes. Ugh…I _need_ to get clean. I feel absolutely foul. Less than human.

"Menien!" I sat up, looking about for Goneld. Dagmar's eyes gleamed in the dark as she half-closed them, then slowly got up herself. There was no sign of Goneld anywhere. I bit my lip, wrestling with the gloom of losing someone. He wasn't close enough to the Sigil Stone. I didn't know whether to hope he was alive, or hope he was dead so he wouldn't have to suffer at the hands of the Dremora. I can only imagine how angry they'll be – any that survive – that their Gate got closed by a couple of humans.

"Come on, up you get." Dagmar hauled me to my feet.

I let her, automatically following the instruction. I've got to find Martin, then get him the hell out of here. "Thanks," I grunted.

"Yeah, thanks," Dagmar agreed, then turned and launched a hasty ice spell at the ground between us and the guards' picket line – a warning shot. "Whoa! It's us!" she barked. "The fools."

I wouldn't say that – if it were me back there, I'd be wary of _anything_ coming out of that Gate. particularly something that could collapse it. The ruins of the Gate's rocky frame still stood, two arms thrust up out of the ground, reaching desperately towards the sky, towards rain.

"Hold it! It's them!" Matius' voice boomed across the gap.

Waving feebly, I exchanged a look with Dagmar. "No shit," came my succinct rejoinder, as well as a huff. Exhaustion, heat, and now sudden chill wore away at my temper, exposing my rough edges a little more than they would normally show. "Who were you expecting?" I trotted up to Matius, detailing what had happened to us, and to Goneld as Dagmar reclaimed her cloak and pinned it on. I can't believe she's wearing that thing – I still feel like a boiled lobster. Absently touching my chainmail, I found it had cooled to an almost usual temperature. I chewed on my thumbnail for a moment then stopped to answer a question posed by Matius.

My focus stayed only half on the conversation. My real worry was about Martin, inside Kvatch. If he's a priest, he'll have little to no experience with weapons, minor restoration magicka and not a whole lot else. A sheltered existence arguably more confining than growing up with my brothers. Cloistered halls of the clergy are good at keeping the real world at bay – I'm actually starting to think I need to work on a really good explanation for when I have to break the news that his whole life has been a carefully guided lie. He's not going to take _that _well, I can tell you. Who would?

That's going to hurt, and hurt people show temper. I'll have to remember not to show mine back.

"But you did it!" Matius grabbed my arm and gave me an enthusiastic shake, startling me out of my reverie. "You did it! Closed the damned Gate and all! Now we have a chance to take the enemy by surprise!"

"Not if we don't get a move on," I announced quietly, looking towards the heavy city gates. "It'll take almost all of us to get those open – it won't happen at all if they've been barred from the inside." Enter the voice of practicality.

Dagmar sighed, pulling up her hood and conjuring a pretty, leaf-green magelight. The little light bobbed over to rest near her shoulder like a magical parody of a parrot. In the light I could see grime, blood, and sweat-tracks obscuring much of her face. Now that she didn't look like an over-boiled lobster, the grime was more visible.

"We can get into the city now that the Gate's closed – the city shouldn't be barred, we got out that fast." Matius said bracingly.

Dagmar sighed, rolling her eyes skywards for patience, looking thoroughly exhausted. "I'll need a new bow," she reached absently back to find her quiver was empty. Well, she _had_ gone over the edge and faced a particularly nasty, if not fatal, controlled drop.

If I were arrows, I'd want to be out of the damn quiver too.

I smiled at the silly thought. Since when do arrows care?

"Dammit," Dagmar added acidly, rubbing her neck beneath her hood.

"Not to worry, Miss," one of Matius' men declared, producing a bow and quiver. "From some of the fallen, but you'll be making better use of them.

Dagmar reequipped herself, scowling thoughtfully as she did so, checking and rechecking her gear, making sure it was 'just so'. Now, mages are _never_ that picky – I don't doubt she's a mage, or _was_ at one point, but I don't think that's what she does now. Not Arena. Not Fighter's Guild. Wow – we're really running out of options. She might be old Blackwood Company, but somehow I don't think so. Those thugs were – according to Julius – pretty classless.

Matius looked ready to run off and enter the fray, but Dagmar stopped him. "Before you go running off, headlong into danger and the unknown," she cautioned and began explaining the sorts of creatures they could expect, based on what we'd seen. I chipped in here and there, enumerating the exploitable chinks in the Daedric plate. Once she was satisfied the major details were covered Dagmar flexed a hand, looking worriedly at it.

"Magicka drained?" I asked softly, as rain began to fall.

Dagmar nodded and turned her face upwards.

I blew water off my lips, squinting. Come on, I'm cooling off, let's go. Let's go, let's go – this isn't liberation his is a rescue mission.

"All right, let's go. Remember, stay together! These things _eat _people!" Dagmar snapped unexpectedly.

As if we'd all simply waited for this cue, Matius and I took off across the gap, followed by Dagmar and the rest of the men.

The gates opened readily, and I ignored Matius' dislike of passing between the Oblivion Gate's ruins. I've got bigger problems. The instant the gates were open, I drew my axes and leaped forward. Fortunately, there were more scamps and clannfear than Dremora – for which I was grateful. Scamps and clannfear are weak booze compared to Dremora.

We fought every step of the way, from the city gates, past the ruined, wrecked arena – what kind of weapons could _do _this to a city, so effectively in such a seemingly short amount of time? – through the city's Central Plaza, once beautifully paved and centered around a raised stone stage, dotted with decorative stonework planters full of trees and shrubs. Nothing green lived, the architecture that had once made Kvatch a rival for the Imperial City shattered like the dreams and lives of the city's residents.

Fires blazing out of control, further filling my nose with smoke, making my eyes burn with tears and ashes, I finally caught sight of Matius again. "We have to get to the Chapel!" I shouted, pointing with one axe before turning to deliver a backhanded strike to a scamp. The axe impacted, knocking the scamp back, the second forward strike severing its head and part of its shoulder from the rest of its body.

"Go on!" Dagmar shouted, scrabbling up onto a pile of debris, from where she could comfortably pick off Daedra, while not allowing anything to sneak up on her.

Forcing my way forward, I kept one eye on the looming chapel, and one eye on the fight in front of me. Dremora were appearing, now, as if they suspected where the hidden heir apparent could be found. Throwing the last Dremora to come at me to the ground I took stock of the situation. Matius was parrying blows from another Dremora, then suddenly spinning to his left with a shout, he drove the sword through a chink between breastplate and helmet, right through the Daedra's throat, knocking the Dremora's helmet off. "Where's Dagmar?" I shouted to him.

"Right here!" Dagmar's voice cut clearly across the sounds of the fray from my right.

"Come on then!"

Dagmar appeared by my shoulder a moment later, detect life lights flickering in her eyes.

Blowing water from my lips again I hurried up the stairs, half tripping over the last one and slammed an axe haft into the heavy wood. The Chapel of Akatosh was of the older construction – a place of safety in time of trouble. You'd be hammering on these doors for a long time before they started to crack, creak, or otherwise buckle. "Hello! Are there any survivors?" I hollered.

"Several," Dagmar answered sedately from my shoulder. Her expression, though, indicated I might be disappointed.

"Who goes there?" the muffled response came in the wake of the pounding with my axe haft.

Fair question, if a little silly – though I suppose when one can't see outside to see that we're safe. "Ailirah of Leyawiin, Fighters' Guild!" I called. "With Dagmar do the Mages' Guild and…" I forgot his name.

"Savlian," Dagmar hissed automatically.

"…Savlian Matius." I filled in almost seamlessly. "We've got some half-dozen of the Kvatch city watch!" Who'd have thought you could hear anything through these doors. Unless they're using a spell, of course. In which case I wouldn't know.

"She…they are not Daedra," the pronouncement came just after the door was cracked open. I couldn't see from where I was, but I saw Dagmar peering in through the chink.

"No, we're not," I addressed the door. "Captain Matius is just behind me. Come on, let's get you people out of here, huh?" Radiating reassurance I took the door and pulled it gently open, revealing a half circle of grim-faced priests and several wounded city watch guards. Now that I was assured the survivors were really survivors and not casualties, I could appreciate what kind of hellish time it was for them. massive blocks of the façade now lay sheared off on the street, while the bell tower was simply _gone_, which explained the bell by the gates.

"Just the same, I'd like to wait…Captain!" the Redguard woman, with the bandaged shoulder, peered past us, relief breaking over her face.

The priests dispersed and the guards let us in. Looking from face to face it was not readily apparent which priest – if any – was the one I sought. However, I wasn't ready to give up just yet. Not after getting out of that nasty Oblivion Gate alive.

I walked over to the altar and knelt clumsily, my joints protesting, touching two fingers to my forehead in respect, before getting up. Safe for the moment, pain began to report in. Notably, the ugly burn on my forearm. I don't remember how I got it, but it's ugly, but it ranks up there with that time Brutus had one too many and tried to put on that burlesque show. Fortunately Roge and Markos ganged up on him before anyone got their eyes burned out.

That you, Mother Mara, for getting me here in one piece.

Prowling nervously, I tried to order my thoughts. One glance back before doing my best to duck out of view when he looked away, confirmed what I feared. Matius was going to ask me to help him rescue Count Goldwine. Torn, I sighed, running a hand over my hair, and my neck. I'd better take this opportunity to get my priorities lined up. Matius would want me to save the Count, or go to find the count's body, whichever the case may be.

Jauffre wanted Martin as quickly as possible.

But curse me for being altruistic, I couldn't just let Savlian and the others head out there, with no idea what they were walking into.

--A--


	9. Chapter 9

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Nine

--A--

"Excuse me?"

Even though the question was posed calmly, quietly, with the apparent intent not to startle me out of a reverie – particularly as I was still carrying one axe in hand - I yelped as if scorched, jumping at the unexpected address. It took a conscious effort to drop my axe, rather than swing around instinctively at the speaker. Despite feeling incredibly jumpy, after having been in Oblivion, I didn't want to whip about like a maniac and accidentally kill someone. My nerves are a little frayed. Understandably so, I think.

The speaker turned out to be the priest who had pointed out I was no Daedra, I recognized his voice, but that wasn't the only thing I recognized about him. "Excuse me," he repeated, his brow crinkling as I stooped to recover my axe, eyes fixed on him, "but you are bleeding." He continued gentle, morning to my arm.

"Eh?" I'm so articulate, but the words had lost my attention by 'you'.

Blue eyes. A clear, unusual shade, like rain-washed summer skies. I've seen eyes like those before, the same shape, the same color. Even if operational prudence dictates I double and triple check to make sure he's the one…I already know. There can't be too many guys walking around with eyes like those. They're distinctive.

"What? Huh?" Still not very articulate – unknot your tongue, Ailirah-girl. You're making a bad impression. Still, maybe it's understandable, being surprised when your mission just walks up and asks if you've nay broken bones, right out of the -pardon the joke – blue.

My arm was indeed covered in blood, a scarlet wash over my chainmail and my hand. I suppose if it was really mine, it might be cause for concern. "Oh, it's okay. That – it's not mine. Thing just got a little messy outside, while we were coming to get you." I grinned at him as best I could. People staring rarely does anything to make someone comfortable in your presence, and he's going to need to be, if I'm supposed to get him to Weynon Priory in one piece.. "Ah, thank you, Brother."

He inclined his head. "Matius is looking for you. It sounds as if there is more fighting to be done." The wear of the long hours, however long the Daedra had held the city, showed. When Martin's face hardened he looked a little more like his father. Then again, I suspect this is because I've seen Emperor Uriel up close and know what to look for. If I don't pay attention to it, it's curiously easy to overlook. Odd, huh?

I grinned. "Story of my life – well, guess it's not really unexpected."

"If you are intending to walk into danger…." I know, we altruists get funny looks like the one I got just here, "Are you injured at all, Miss Ailirah?" At first I wondered how he knew who I was, then I realized that if Matius was looking for me, it made sense. Though, there was something like hazy recognition in his face. I dunno – maybe we've seen each other before. I've popped in and out of Kvatch on numerous occasions on guild business, but not often to the temple. They don't usually need hired muscle, or in my case, hired finesse.

It also made me realize I was hurt to begin with.

Blushing a little at the polite address, I rediscovered the burn on my arm, while fighting with my chainmail sleeve. "Aw…don't call me 'Miss'…" particularly not with the news I've got for you…Really, it's _very _uncomfortable, I'm not used to it. "Just some burns, but they're not too bad." I shrugged. I can live with the burns, the bruises and the aching joints.

"If I may?" he held out his hands, palms open. Restoration magicka usually requires physical contact to work – they're not spells you can use over a distance, from what I understand.

I set my axe on the floor and shifted my sleeves back as far as they'd go, wincing. The reason the burns don't hurt is because I haven't done anything yet to antagonize them. The burn on my arm, which had ruined most of my sleeve up to the elbow, wept. The clear liquid adhered to the remains of the sleeve or the metal rings of my mail, all of which tore free as I moved the chainmail gingerly.

The priest's face paled slightly at the nasty-looking injury or more likely, at where I had to be and what I had to be doing, to get such a nasty injury. "It's not as bad as it looks," I assured him. It's true, they didn't hurt, and they were healing – slowly, thanks to a couple of potions I usually carry with me - but they did look bad. I bowed my head, holding my hands palm-down before me, hovering above his.

The priest lifted his hands so that mine rested on his and he closed his eyes. I may be a Mundane myself, but that does not make me wholly 'deaf' to magicka. I noticed a faint stutter at the outset of the healing, and I didn't blame him. I can't imagine what it was like to be trapped in here all night, to have to hear the cries of the dead and dying. I'm sure his nerves are just as frayed as anyone else's, and it showed in the stutter before he recollected himself and finished the spell flawlessly.

The wounds burned slightly, growing warm, though not as if septic. A healing warmth. I opened one eye, watching the visible skin knitting itself back together, paler than the surrounding flesh, but soon whole, undamaged. "There."

Clasping my hands below my chin, as I might have done at any chapel, I bowed slightly. It's always good to be polite, and I have a healthy respect for the clergy to begin with.

"Matius is ready for you," Dagmar declared, sweeping up behind us.

"Right, thank you, brother," I bowed slightly at the waist and turned.

"Certainly," he bowed to the fore of the chapel then swept off to assist elsewhere, speaking softly and reassuringly to one person after another.

Looking at Dagmar I knew she wasn't fighting with us. "I take it you're not coming?" I asked quietly, knowing that now I had to make a painful decision. The Fighters' Guild in me wanted to go with Matius, save as many as we could. The practicality said I needed to look after Martin, get him to safety. Yet…Matius and his men were tired already – so was I – they needed every hand they could get. I couldn't just drag Martin into that – not only would it be foolish in the extreme and risky, he's not exactly a fighter.

I glanced back, discreetly watching him issue instructions gently but firmly to a little acolyte, who couldn't have been more than eight or nine.

"I have family, here in Kvatch. I have to find them." Dagmar declared quietly but firmly, leading me to believe she'd argued with Matius about this, and wasn't about to argue with me as well.

I sighed, nodding. About what I expected.

"That's too bad. We could use your help." I held out a hand for her and Dagmar shook it. "And for that help you've given, I thank you." Volunteers are better than conscripts. Even if conscripts have a place.

"Not at all, I could say the same." Dagmar's mouth twitched. "May I give you a piece of very good advice?"

"Sure," I grinned.

"Be careful what you volunteer for."

Chuckling, I nodded. Fat chance – that's kind of part of the volunteering thing. You do what you can, when you can, however you can. "Thanks, I think."

"Good luck." It sounded more like a correction than anything else. "You'll need it, if Matius is up to what I think he is." She grimaced, glancing over towards Matius before shaking her head slightly.

"The castle?" Unease flickered in my stomach . Oh boy.

Dagmar nodded grimly.

"Well, I kind of figured he'd want to…to find Count Goldwine." I sighed. "I…Dagmar, will you do me a favor?" I blurted it out, before I argued myself into a headache, not to mention a corner.

"What?" her eyebrows arched.

"Find the priest, Martin, and keep…keep him safe." I swallowed. "Just until I can get to him?" I bit my lip, looking up at her. Please let her have an altruistic moment…

"Why?" she frowned, looking around the chapel as she did so.

Swallowing again I shook my head. "Please? It's…it's just important, okay? I can't say anymore. I can't." I reiterated, absently raising a hand to bite worriedly at my nails, wincing as I bit too deep. "Ow."

Dagmar let out a heavy sigh, looking from me back to the survivors and back. "If I don't find what I'm looking for, here, I will do my best."

I opened my mouth to argue, then shut it, nodding disappointedly. It's the best I can hope for. I've got this really bad feeling that if I walk out now, I'm going to regret it later. I mean _really _regret it later. "Okay, thanks." I nodded, watching her turn and drift out, like a receding shadow. Weird – at the start of all this, I'd wanted her to get lost. Now I wished she was sticking around.

Turning, I marched up to Matius. "Dagmar said you were looking for me. Are you ready?" I asked briskly, concealing my ill-feeling at the whole situation.

Jauffre's going to kick my ass.

If my family doesn't beat him to it.

"Hah!" Matius clapped me on the back. "Nothing less from the Guild, eh? We drove them back, by the hells!"

"Yes. Captain, may I recommend that you not pound the life out of me just yet?" I grunted, wincing slightly. My muscles still ached – it's unavoidable, even if you're healed by magicka. Stiff, achy muscles are a fact of life.

Matius didn't appear to hear. "Listen, you may have guessed, it doesn't end here," I gave my ears over to listening to Matius and my eyes over to watching the priests with what was left of the guard preparing to move the civilians out of the ruined chapel.

"Is this _all_ that were left?" I interrupted blankly, watching the short caravan. It seemed like so many more when I'd first arrived. Now it looked to be less than twenty people, from the young acolyte of only nine to one of the priests closer to ninety, leaning on a fellow's arm as he hobbled about.

"Yes…well…" Matius sighed. "Listen, I know whatever your errand, you're probably eager to get on with it. But there's still the castle – it's got to be retaken. We have to rescue the count. It's my duty to go. But I ask you, as a member of the Fighter's guild, and a citizen of the Empire…come with us. Lend us your swo…well, axes..." Matius corrected himself.

Nodding slowly, almost resignedly, Matius gave me another clap to the back, his eyebrows raising when I didn't lurch, buck, pitch or otherwise react, except to sigh deeply. He doesn't hit half as hard as Calidius, much less so than Uncle Modryn or my brothers. Though, I admit with all the things queuing to do damage to me, I'd rather my allies not place themselves on that list.

I want my Silent Partner. Desperately – these axes are getting heavy and my forearms are starting to protest. To say nothing of my shoulders and back and well, generally all the rest of me. It hurts worse, knowing there's no prospect of a hot bath anytime soon.

"So - have you any sort of _plan_, before we go rushing in?" I asked practically.

Matius opened his mouth then gave as shifty half grin. "We've got to do what we can."

Dammit. I hate that kind of plan. It usually involves rushing head first into the unknown screaming and…

Well, that's kind of how I do it anyway, so why am I acting like a little bitch? "Come on – let's do this," I grunted.

--A--

While Matius' grand plan consisted of 'fight our way to the gates and fight out way through the castle and find the count'. It wasn't the worst plan I'd ever heard. Particularly as, once we got to the other side of the chapel, I realized that any plan we could come up with would be shattered in minutes. We couldn't rely on any street being unblocked. We couldn't tell how many Daedra, what kinds, or anything. We went in blind. So as far as plans in relation to circumstances, this is a _good_ plan.

The problem was that the Count hunkered down in his keep, and had sealed the defenses – which was why we had to go round the Gray Fox's barn to get in. And once we got in, we found the place in disarray, and full of Daedra – the fire atronachs, no less.

Ugh – Nords do _not_ like the heat. Fortunately, I'm half-Imperial and live in Leyawiin of all places.

Finally, after splitting up, then doubling back, I finally stumbled back to where Matius and his men were holding their ground. The men had wanted to come with me as I searched the castle , but I'd staunchly refused – I had been correct in thinking it would be quicker for one person to dart along relatively unnoticed, rather than taking an entourage of revenge-hungry soldiers with me. I understand the animosity towards the Daedra, but I'm objective oriented. They wanted me to find the Count. Great, I'll find the Count.

I don't need six meatshields to do it.

Those six meatshields would be far better employed guarding my real objective, somehow, hopefully under the watchful eyes of Dagmar.

Not to put any kind of…of aspersion on the guards, but if you could have seen them, they were all chomping at the bit. "Right…there'll be little else but Daedra back there…this is for you," I held up the Count's signet ring before Matius could ask, watching his expression of anger fade to something like hopelessness as he realized what the ring meant.

Count Goldwine was dead, lying in a doorway of his private suite. Nothing I could do, except keep the Daedra from scavenging the remains.

My body ached like anything again, my left axe stuck into my belt. The fights of the past several hours…the whole day…were catching up with me, quickly and in a bad way. I don't think I could do anything more except escape as quietly as possible, with my objective, and get my ass back to Chorrol so someone else could take over.

"This is indeed a dark day for all of us. But I thank you for risking your own life to help us…" Matius sighed, exhausted. "At least this is safe. Thank you; I shall make sure it is protected, for the time when a new Count is appointed."He took the ring from me, noticing that my left shoulder was slouched as I favored my right side. "You're hurt…"

"Not badly, and I have no time to spare," I stated firmly. "I have to find Brother Martin and get him _out of_ here."

"Is he family?" Matius asked.

"Friend of the family." I said blithely – not quite true, but I wasn't about to blow Martin's still-intact cover yet. My preoccupation apparently lent credibility to my words because Matius didn't seem to think I was lying. "Good luck, captain."

"And you," Matius nodded, looking tired and a little helpless. "I wish I could…thank you properly," he ended lamely.

"You don't need to," I patted his shoulder and took off at about a limp, aching and wishing for nothing more than a quiet corner, where I could curl up and sleep.

--A--

The civilians and the injured Guard moved back to the camp with the rest of the evacuees.

"Oi!" I hailed the man who had originally made the 'crazy women' comment. He looked better, now, if tired and a little worn. "I'm looking for a woman in black."

"She was there," he pointed to a large rock. "I'm sure she…" he looked around in surprise.

I did to, catching sight of Dagmar, holding the reins of a dark horse, watching me from the edge of the camp. I grinned as she pointed off to one side, probably to where Martin was, before swinging up onto her horse, waving and vanishing into the darkness.

The clouds still roiled overhead, but the rain had stopped. Forcing tiredness and pain to the back of my mind, I began to look around, trying to pick out Martin from the crowd, ultimately failing. Tired eyes miss details, so I returned to the man with the directions and simply asked.

Can I go home now?

--A--

--Author's notes appended--

"...round the Gray Fox's barn…" the Tamrielic equivalent of "Round Robin Hood's Barn. Consider it a quaint local saying.


	10. Chapter 10

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Ten

--A--

I knew it. And the old man simply confirmed what I already knew. The priest who had seen to my hurts, the one with Uriel's eyes, was indeed the man I sought. Now came the butterflies. How do you explain to a stressed-out someone that he's not only in grave danger (though this is kind of apparent), his whole life is a lie (people _hate_ this line), and you're carrying the torch of truth and knowledge (no one _ever_ believes it)?

_I _wouldn't take it well. When I don't take things well – I mean 'when I don't take things well _at all' - _there tends to be a lot of shouting, and possibly broken objects.

He's _going_ to laugh. Or tell me to lay off the booze. And the fights. And probably the swearing, after that, because my people skills aren't at their best.

"Are you Brother Martin?" I asked, when I couldn't stand doing nothing, shaking slightly from exhaustion.

"I am – have you need for a priest again?" his voice held a bitterness and his eyes held as yet unseen nightmares.

I was feeling a lot of the same – though I still felt buoyed up on the rush of having done all this crazy shit, volunteered for it, then _survived_ to make it _back_ out. At the same time, I'm sure I'll have nightmares about that horrible place for weeks. It was bad. Even if I succeeded in forcing myself to overlook details I'm sure my mind recorded more than my eyes actually saw. If it didn't, it'll make some stuff up for me.

"They're calling you the Hero of Kvatch now," Martin declared quietly, as though he didn't know quite what to say. Join the guild.

"I'm no hero," I groaned. Just what I need, people with preconceived notions about what I'm supposed to be. I'm Fighters' Guild! We do this sort of crazy-ass shit for a living! Ow…my head really hurts.

Martin's eyes swept my face, his eyebrow knitting together as if my reaction failed to match with his expectations. I'm sorry to disillusion you further, but I'm a human girl, I'm tired, I'm fussy and I'd really like to get out of her now. Aside from which, I probably look like shit right now, I'm hot, I'm sticky, absolutely sooty from Oblivion and from Kvatch itself. The rain's done little to clear my face and it's going to break out if I don't get it washed soon.

"I don't know as I'll be much help to you…I'm having a little trouble understanding the gods right now." He announced quietly.

Then it's a good thing I don't want you to patch me up. Let me rephrase that – I don't want anyone patching me up, because I _want_ to get a move on, before those crazy-ass assassins catch up with me. You. Whatever – let's go.

I don't know how to say this, so you'll believe me….then again, right now, maybe I ought to keep my head in the game and just…kick all asses, and sort things out later. It's easier. Not necessarily right, but I don't think my patron would mind – a t least I get _results_. "I…" You know, anything I say is going to be wrong. It would be to me, if our positions were reversed. "I need you to come with me." I announced gently, testing the waters. I really don't want him to get upset, or vent any temper he might have riled up.

Especially as I tend to vent _back_.

He gave me a funny look which shifted into confusion. "Why?"

I looked around and then bowed my head. Why indeed? Here we go. "I am Ailirah of Leyawiin, I was sent here to fetch you." Truth, it's a good way to go.

"Sent? Why? By whom?" he was losing his patience, and I could see an explosion coming. Not so much anger at me, so much as I was touching off whatever was seething beneath his skin. "Why?" he repeated when I didn't answer right away, or within what he considered a reasonable amount of time.

"Look around you," I responded to annoyance with annoyance. Dammit – I was hoping to stay logical. "Do you _really_ think the Daedra chose to come here for no reason at all? They came here for _you_. They _will _keep coming back_._" I raised a finger, shaking it indicatively it at him. "Just for you." Okay, so I'm threatening him with the loves of the survivors. I don't think there's a better plan just now. Blue eyes met brown as I did my best to stare him down.

That's a remnant of childhood – whenever one of us tried to lie to a parent, said parent would direct us 'look me in the eye and answer my question' or something similar. We never did get the knack of doing it.

"Me? What would they want with me?" Curiosity wins out. Explosion averted. His face drained of color, glancing around at the survivors. I could see the question of 'can I risk it? Risk that she's telling the truth' stamped indelibly across his face.

"It's because of your father…Emperor Uriel," I said slowly, gauging his reaction. I've never been terribly good at that whole 'reading people' thing, but hey – I still kick ass. That's _got_ to count for _something_, right?

"No, no you must be mistaken…I am a priest of Akatosh…my father was a farmer.." Martin shook his head, looking away from me. "You've got the wrong man."

"Your _father_ was Emperor Uriel Septim. I was there, he told me to find you." I responded quietly, firmly, gaze fixed. Okay, so I'm tweaking events a little – but not by much. "The Daedra came for you…because you're the last hope that this empire has to hold together. You were hidden as an infant by Jauffre, the grandmaster of the Blades…" He wasn't believing me, despite the threatof returning Daedra, and it showed.

"Why are you…saying all this? It makes no sense, you…" he stopped and looked closer. "You're the one who closed the Gate…" This sounded like a completely separate thought. I think it might be along the lines of 'who in her right mind would do something like that for no reason. Apparently, this question was easily answered. _I__f_ I was telling the truth, I had a very good reason.

If I was lying…there was no reason. Never mind the fact that gung-ho volunteer hero-types don't just grow on trees. Nor are they prone to rooting out obscure Priests of Akatosh in order to lie to them with some cock and bull story no one in his right mind ought to believe. Things can only get so ludicrous before they start to make sense again.

Not when she's been out slaughtering Daedra, and letting them make a good effort at killing her. Unless she's suicidal, but I don't give that appearance. Or, I liekto think I don't.

It was amazing the amount of information that flickered across his face in a few brief moments.

I nodded encouragingly.

"Perhaps the trip addled your wits…" he suggested gently, I think he was trying to muster sympathy.

I scowled darkly. "Why would I _lie_?" He _had_ accused me of doing just that. I can't say I appreciate being called a liar, particularly when I nearly got killed for this 'lie' I'm supposed to be perpetuating. "Do you think I wanted to be here? Did you think this," I waved at the camp, then at Kvatch, "all that up there, was _fun_? Was my idea of a _vacation_? If so that's one sick sense of humor you've got. I went through the Gate because I had to get to you! So _don't_ go calling me _crazy_, if you're not going to even give me the chance to prove it. Or I'll _thump_ you! Princeling or not." The threat was genuine – one more crack about _my_ sanity and I _would_ thump him, _then_ I'd worry about the repercussions. Crossing my arms, irritated, an awkward moment of silence ensued.

"You…" he stopped. I could almost see the thoughts 'thump me?' behind his eyes.

"You heard me," I continued to glower. "I seldom bluff."

"I can see that you are not lying…" he said slowly.

No shit.

"I'll tell you what." The effort to be polite absolutely drained my last resources. Anything after this is desperation, or boldfaced non-diplomacy. It's been too long of a day. Taking a long, slow breath, I took a moment for myself. "Let me take you to Jauffre – he can explain everything to you – hell, he can re-explain it to _me,_ too, since at _no _point did he mention Ailirah-eating Daedra or stupid-ass Gates to Oblivion." Bitching, moving on." Once we're there, I can get out of your hair. It's not that far from here to Chorrol…" I cajoled. "Please? I am really, really tired, and I don't particularly want to fight with you." _But I will, if I have to_, hung in the air.

Woe unto you if I have to get nasty about this. You won't like it. I'm not just an errand girl, after all.

Martin gave me a very long look, then sighed, running both hands through his hair to lace his fingers behind his neck and look upwards. With another heavy sigh he nodded, as if he didn't really want to, but was out of other or better options.

"Thank you. This way – I don't want people to notice you leaving." I moved towards the fringes of the camp, doing my best not to attract attention.

"You gave them hope. You helped them drive the Daedra back. Have you done this before?" he asked as we started to trudge off.

I almost blushed at the compliment – or what I perceived as a compliment. "Nope," I said with an attempt at levity. I thought I heard him invoke Akatosh, and felt a grin. Yeah, I was having some doubts too. I chuckled a little. "It's okay - I mean, I walked away, right?"came the cheeky response.

Martin shook his head, but he almost, for a brief moment, looked like he was trying not to laugh.

"Ah, it's okay. As the Fighter's Guild Mascot, I am _used_ to being laughed at," I announced expansively. "Occupational hazard, you know." Helps that i learned to laugh too.

This time he was unsuccessful in stifling it. The laughter was infections and probably sprouting from exhaustion. "Tell you what – we'll get out of sight of Kvatch, then look for a place to camp. I'm pretty sure you didn't have a restful night either." It was a good plan, as far as I was concerned.

"No," Martin agreed. Shadows fell across his face, but not the corporeal sort.

I began to chew on my fingernails again. I wanted to apologize for not begin faster, but I can't see what I could have done to make that happen.

Unless I'd got my ass from Leyawiin to Chorrol as quickly as possible instead of mucking about. I winced – I am definitely my own worst critic.

--A--

We did stop, and well out of sight of the road –though not far enough for me to get lost. "I'll take first watch." I announced as I settled against a tree.

"Why? You're just as tired as I am. More, even." Martin protested rather gallantly as he collapsed against the same tree.

"Yeah, well," I shifted. Damn tree roots. Unslinging my pack, I began to paw through it. "I at least could _do_ something about my bad situation. _You_, on the other hand were stuck. That takes more of a toll. Here, if you're not going to fall asleep right away, better eat something." I handed over a small loaf of traveler's bread to him, and pulled one for myself, as well as my canteen. "You can use my pack as a pillow if you'd like." I offered, around a mouthful of the sticky bread.

It's technically not even 'bread' the way you'd think of it. It's a honey-based thing with little dried fruits and nuts and grains, and quite sticky. But it doesn't go bad readily, even in extreme temperatures. Mages can use it to boost their energy levels if they get overstretched, and it works pretty well for us Mundanes, when we're running low on reserves.

Martin didn't argue any further, and I watched as long as I could. He had nightmares – though they were quiet, constrained to sudden twitches and pained facial expressions.

Getting to my feet to keep my blood moving, so I wouldn't fall asleep, I paced about the camp.

Well, I found him. We're on the road. That's gotta be a good sign, right?

--A--

Morning came cold and gray, unusually cold for this time of year. "Ailirah. Ailirah, wake up."

"Nnng." I ache from yesterday, and feel like the scum on pond scum's boots. If there were such a thing. I broke out breakfast and shouldered my pack.

"Let me take it," the weight suddenly vanished as Martin took hold of it, so I could slip it off. I didn't argue, and slid out of the pack, stretching the protesting muscles of my back.

"Thanks," I nodded.

Martin nodded back, looking tired and decidedly grayer than he had yesterday. "Come on, we'll stick to the road." I'd rather run the risk of getting caught by assassins on the roads than get lost in backcountry and get caught by assassins.

This lasted about halfway to Skingrad, at which point…

"Down!" I gave Martin a hefty shove and he overbalanced, as I freed one axe to catch a heavy mace from an assassin, who'd suddenly broken cover. Keeping the weapon tangled in my axe I struck with my second. The plate mimicked Daedric plate, but was not nearly so well-made. My axe cut in like a knife into soft cheese, and when I tore it free, it was with enough force that my pivot sunk it into the chest of another assassin.

A moment later the ground shook, and I backed up as a giant atronach loomed into being.

"We're running now!" I turned, snagging Martin by the elbow, not sure if the Atronach was his, but as it didn't give chase, I assume it was.

"Whoa…"

"Keep running! These buggers are persist…" I dug my heels in and flung Martin roughly to the ground, this time tripping myself, slipping on the wet grass. I rolled left, narrowly avoiding a mace-blow to the head. I grunted as I forced myself to my feet, catching the next blow with both axes, I kicked at his kneecaps. A second small group of assassins had waited for us, like hounds to the hunters.

Bastards.

Grunting in pain the assassins' knee crumpled, sending him to the ground, as I flung his mace from his hand and caught him clumsily with an axe.

Looking for Martin, the priest was standing with a shimmer of a shield before him, looking grim, hardened, and not at all helpless.

The atronach caught up, pounding after its summoner, dogged by three assassins, I having taken out at least two. Wham.

A blow from behind hit me clumsily and I rocked forward, hitting the ground and tasting dirt. I rolled, swinging my axe to ward of an attack that didn't come.

Martin shouted a spellsign that manifested as a spell of ice that froze the assassin in place, a glittering statue. I kicked him over and the ice-assassin broke, cracked by the impact.

"Come on! Keep going!" I barked, killing another assassin before getting to Martin.

The plan worked beautifully. By keep it a running battle, the assassins' effectiveness was decreased, since they couldn't all run at the same speed. This kept the numbers in our favor, until they caught on to what I was doing.

However, no sooner did they think they had us bottled up, ringed in by their forces, then Martin grabbed my shoulder and cast me to the ground. Caught off balance I landed hard, yelping as _magicka_ washed overhead. I could feel it like rain on my neck, and shivered slightly.

Silence fell, and I rolled onto my side, looking around. Dead assassins. All of them. Martin swayed woozily, though his expression remained hardened, resolute.

"Holy shit on toast!" I popped up from the ground, reaching over to steady Martin by the elbow. "You're…" Yeesh – he looks bad, but that was some pretty impressive magicka.

Martin's brow shone slightly with sweat and he was more than a little shaky.

"You…_probably _shouldn't do that again…not for a couple hours anyway…overkill. Effective though, don't get me wrong." I fished out a handful of toffees from my bag. "Here, you're overstretched. Down the hatch before we try walking any further."

"Thanksh." Marin slurred a little dazedly around the toffee.

I chuckled – is it okay to call the prince or whatever he is cute? Because that was a really cute thing to do. Really _normal_.

Unfortunately, when all was said and done, we were very lost. I realized it when I realized I had passed this stupid tree _twice_. Hence why there were axe marks in the trunk.

"Oh _dammit_." I shouted to no one in particular, flinging myself onto the ground.

"What is it? Did you hurt yourself?" Martin asked, stopping. He had recovered quite quickly from his overstretch.

"No. I'm _lost_." _Dammit – _the one time I can't afford to get lost I _do_!

"Lost, how can you be lost?" Martin blinked, though without accusation.

"_Lousy_ sense of direction." I flopped back, sprawling on the ground. Just kill me now. I'm tired, I'm lost, I don't want to play anymore.

"Oh…" Martin shook his head. "Here." He took my hand and knelt by my shoulder. My hand burned to the point that I jerked it free, to find glowing beneath my skin, a red compass rose, pointing north, towards my thumb.

Standing up I turned, watching the little arrow move. "Oh…that's nifty," I announced.

"Indeed." Martin nodded.

"It's not like I _intended_ to get lost. Maybe they'll have a harder time finding us…" The fact remains, I think we missed one.

"It's a basic compass spell…" Martin began, though carefully, apparently not wishing to insult. It sounded like he was offering to teach me.

I laughed, hollowly, and picked out east and started forward. "I'm a Mundane – won't do me any good."

"You can't be a Mundane." Martin shook his head, making a face, like he's just gotten a mouthful of something bitter.

"Why not?" I responded, glad of the conversation, even if it wasn't exactly pleasant.

"Because," he took my wrist, his free hand cradling mine as he looked at the compass glowing beneath my skin. "It works for you."

I looked at the compass rose again.

"It has to draw power from somewhere. _You_," he declared, his mouth twitching toward a smile, "are just magically lazy."

Unexpectedly, I laughed. "And _you_ sound _just _like Markos."

Particularly because he's probably right.

--A--


	11. Chapter 11

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Eleven

--A--

"You want to stop _now_?" Martin asked, halfway between Kvatch and Chorrol.

Part of the decision to take a few minutes sprouted from exhaustion. Despite the fact that we had slept, it didn't mean we were rested. Trust me, there is a difference. The other part of this decision is distinctly more selfish, but equally practical.

"Look," Heaving a heavy sigh I flung the pack, which I was carrying again, onto the ground to rifle through it more effectively. The stuff you want always falls to the bottom. Especially if you carry too much in the first place. "I'm hot, I'm sweaty, and I smell like a _guy_. No offense," I held up a hand. "I'm going to go take minute to get cleaned up, as this is the third likely-looking place to do so I've found. If you don't like it, just sit on the rock with your back to me. I don't want you wandering off….ahaha!" cackling, I pulled out my prize.

Soap.

"I thought we needed to make haste." Martin settled on the rock, evidence that he fully realized I was not going to argue – he could simply trudge along by himself. Well, we all know I'd never allow that – more likely he'd wake up with a knock on his noggin.

"Tell me you _like_ travelling with a smelly, sweaty girl. Priest's aren't supposed to lie," came my calm rejoinder. I'm so sick of feeling only half-human I could kill something. So, as I'm running low on assassins for the first time in _days_, it's as good a time as any.

Silence greeted the snappy comment, after which, a resigned sigh.

Snickering, I knelt at the edge of the little stream and peeled my chainmail off. "See? Besides, now that we're not _lost_, we can cut time from the trip." Hopefully this addition will lighten his mood. I know it sounds frivolous, but honestly, I'm the one walking around like a Shambling Mound, smelling like a troll.

"I thought you have a lousy sense of direction."

Pausing the fuss with the fastenings of my padded jacket, I took a glance back at Martin's back. Was that a joke? An honest to goodness _joke_? Grinning with a shrug the jacket came off, resulting in a sigh of relief. The shirt beneath was soaked in more than just sweat, smelling like _nothing_ else and not in a good way. Blood spatters near the tattered sleeve, the odd wash of the clear liquid my arm had wept before Martin had healed it, sweat and soot – it's absolutely disgusting.

I scrubbed quickly, washing my clothes as well - you don't just strip down to your skivvies in the wilderness, after all – and dressed in more comfortable attire, wrapping the damp laundry in my packed cloak, to keep everything else dry. Not the best thing for the clothing, but I figure I'm never going to get Oblivion out of them – so why fuss?

Why fuss indeed? I shook them out of the cloak a moment later and hid them under a rock. They're beyond salvage anyway. Let's be practical about this.

While I no longer had the benefit of the padded jacket, to keep my chainmail off my skin, I decided I could deal with it. After all, I felt a lot cleaner, and a hell of a lot more human.

"Okay – you want a turn?" I asked, turning to look behind me again. Martin still sat with his back resolutely to me. "I'm decent."

He turned, shaking his head.

"Well, then, how about lunch? We can eat and walk." Which we did.

Martin's not exactly a chatty person, but apparently he doesn't like pressing silence anymore than I do. Within moments he'd fallen back on his usual coping method: ask me a question that requires an in-depth answer. "Have you always been Fighters' Guild?"

"Oh yeah," I nodded, unsticking my teeth from the waybread. "My brothers, too. And both my parents…" Chuckling, I shook my head. "I got in after my brother Julius took over for former Guildmistress Donton." Actually, the reason I say we were Chorrol based is that's where _I_ was left most of the time, with Uncle Modryn. I still can't believe that of all the things he tried to teach me, only the painting really stuck.

"I didn't realize he had a sister." Martin announced placidly, though he grunted in annoyance when the hem of his robe caught on something. I suppose if I hadn't been so worried when we skirted past Skingrad, I'd have stopped and got him something a little more practical.

Nonetheless, I chuckled at Martin's wince of verbal wrong-footedness. "Most people don't. Hell, once he decided not to grow a beard like the others, no one realized who he _was_, that's how come he got in with the Blackwood company." I thought it was a pretty weak disguise, when I heard the stories, but it worked. "Fetching idiots." I always append some kind of slur on the Blackwood company – they deserve it, for nearly killing my brother with their bad hist hoo-doo.

"So, three brothers?" Martin asked.

"Four," I corrected. "All older – all big and hairy and loud." Glancing over, Martin looked like he was biting back something rather sardonic. "Yeah, all my bad habits I get from them."

"I didn't…"

"Nah, but you were _thinking_ it. Everyone does, _believe_ me." Sighing in good humor, I ran a hand through my damp hair, tied back in a queue at the base of my neck, rather than in braids. Talk of the Guild, and several anecdotes about my minor adventures followed. As it turns out, Martin's never been outside Cyrodiil.

Given the look on his face when I explained Elsweyrian story drums, I think he rather regrets it. "Don't worry," I patted his shoulder bracingly, noticing that even though I did it very gently he flinched slightly. Well, he's not one of my brothers, after all – I suppose the gesture is pretty out-going. "Oh, crap – sorry."

Shaking his head, Martin prompted me on another topic, which I answered with a shrug accompanied by great detail. He's just not used to being around gregarious people. Though he seems to be a bit gregarious himself, which makes me wonder why he's a priest at all – he doesn't seem suited, somehow, to hanging around a chapel.

He seems more like a doer. Maybe why we're getting on so well.

--A--

We were within sight of Weynon Priory, coming out of the wilderness with some caution, when a blood-chilling scream, coming from the direction of the Priory, rent the air. We'd avoided any assassins after that first encounter, but it looked now like they'd simply headed for our destination, since they couldn't find _us_. Good tactic, which made it a worrisome one as well.

"Stay put. Keep your head down." My axes freed easily from their rig, by now quite comfortable in my hands, if not entirely familiar.

Martin resolutely stood his ground in an attitude of 'shove it', accompanied by a soft comment to similar effect. The overall impression, however, was not of a quiet priest but of someone whose mettle I wasn't sure I wanted to test. No doubt it would involve a lot of shouting on my part, a huffy silence, all followed by compliance. I don't think he likes being told to stay out of the way, or to keep his head down. Neither do I, but I'm not the heir apparent, so I'm _allowed _to get into these situations. Then again, he is a mage…well, in this case, if he thinks he can look after himself, let him.

Striding forward I parried a blow with my of-handed weapon, swinging the other forcibly into the assassin's unguarded flank. Thank goodness these guys are no good. Stepping sharply left I threw the assassin to the ground planting a foot on his shoulder to tear the axe embedded in his torso free, sending a shower of blood droplets into the dirt. The spray of the now unblocked injury left spatters across my clothes ad armor. Crap – I just got clean too.

Blood pounded in my ears as I gave the bloody axe a sharp swing, an attempt to clean it off a little. I didn't want the assassin's juices dripping down the haft, making it slippery. By now a sort of calm had settled in my stomach, if nowhere else: this is my arena. This is what I do.

Normally I would never advocate flashy fighting, but when you're small like me, you have to do what you can. In my case, I use my opponent's strength and weight – as well as laws of nature – to turn those strengths to my advantage.

Don't fight strong, fight smart – just like Bellona always told me growing up.

As I flung the dead assassin free Eronor, the cranky Dunmer, came tearing from behind one of the buildings, skidding to a halt as he realized that I was no assassin, then yelped when he saw said assassin dead on the ground, armor vanished, leaving only the strange red robes and a spreading puddle of bloody mud.

"Whoa hey!" I grabbed his arm. After he started babbling incoherently I felt patience vanish like steam as Martin shouted that there were more of them, in pursuit of the Dunmer. Given the shouts came before and during the wash of powerful magicka, tinny on the air, I was sure that _I_ at least, didn't need to worry about them. "Oi! Where's Jauffre!?" I shouted, slapping the hysterical mer sharply, to bring him back to coherence. "Where?" I barked again.

"I…he was in the chapel!" The Dunmer stammered, taken aback by the rough treatment.

Dropping him I pointed at Martin after picking out the dead assassins, lying in the shadow of a storm atronach, many showing signs of burns or ice crystals. Wow…he looks like he's _just_ getting warmed up, too. Then again, must be nice to be able to act against _the _people who put you into so much fear and doubt. "Stay put! You as well," I pointed at the mer, whom Martin was helping to his feet, having come over as I pried information loose.

I don't have time to be gentle. This constitutes 'trouble, hip-deep'.

I hope he stays practical, without getting all gloomy-depressed over the conflicts of being a priest in a violent situation, and responding with due necessity. "I didn't get you this far to let them use you as pincushion," I growled to myself, swinging my axes menacingly as I moved forward.

Fetching assassins causing all these fetching problems. I'm gonna 'problem' _them_. Especially since it looks like I'll be mopping up problems for _months_. Damn, I can't wait to get back to normal missions. Something involving mud, Aylied ruins, walking skeletons and more mud. Nowhere hot – I don't do 'hot' anymore.

I want my Silent Partner – I want to test if some of these grumblings are painful or even anatomically _possible_.

Carried by annoyance – I'm getting really tired of these bastards trying to foul my mission - I kicked in the door to the chapel, mercilessly startling the assassins. They had no time to do much more than scramble because if they were caught off-guard by me, I certainly wasn't caught off-guard by _them_.

I simply strode up as action lulled slightly, sinking an axe into the nearest assassin, as if demonstrating technique for a junior guildmember.

The assassins had Jauffre cornered, though he was by no means brought to bay. Taking advantage of the lull my appearance caused, Jauffre gave a shout, lunging forward at the first opening he could find, his elegantly shaped sword punching through a chink in an assassin's armor.

The advantage here is simple. Jauffre and I are two, the assassins many. They have to worry about team members in a confined space, while Jauffre and I were well out of one another's way. One of the assassins actually got taken out by one of his own teammates, a misjudged blow hitting him.

Amateurs. The smart thing is to get us out of the chapel, where they'd have room to move around. I suppose I ought to be grateful they're no good.

"The amulet of kings! It's all they could be here for!" Jauffre panted, taking off at a run with surprising stamina for an old guy fresh from a fight.

Looking around he's right. The assassins all lay dead or dying on the ground. My feet moved of their own accord, out of instinct as my brain continued to take in and filter information.

I mean really – he was sprinting like he hadn't _just_ come out in a life or death struggle.

It's not that I'm out of shape, but I simply have more armor to lug around. "You left it lying _out_?!" I demanded, enraged as I followed him. What the hell?!

Jauffre did not dignify this with a reply, though whether because he realized this lapse of judgment, or because he was more focused on checking to see that the enemy hadn't achieved their goal, I'm not entirely sure.

My attention went directly back to Martin, still standing at the ready,with Eronor quivering behind him. I'm so glad he's practical about these things – I pity the idiot assassin who tries anything! That's a particularly nasty look on his face – kind of scary, but that might be the rush of the fight talking.

"What's happening?" Martin demanded, striding forward.

"Trouble!" I shouted back, motioning him to follow. "Follow us, but not too close! You see any assassins, you crisp them, or whatever you do! We're not interested in asking any questions!"

Martin barked something unintelligible as I thundered into the priory, almost tripping over the corpse of the poor Prior as I tried to get up the stairs. It looked like he'd simply chose the wrong moment to answer the door.

There were no more assassins, but I knew from Jauffre's shout of dismay, even before I rounded the doorway that the Amulet was gone. Panting, dripping blood on the floor from my axes, I leaned in the doorframe. "Dammit!" I groaned, kicking the wall in frustration.

This is beyond bad. We get the heir only to lose the amulet? What was he _thinking_, leaving it lying around in such an unprotected place? Was he thinking at all?!

"It's gone," Jauffre breathed blankly, getting to his feet, moving stiffly now, looking fatalistically at the ruined chest. He took a fortifying breath, then put a hand over his face, shaking his head.

"We'll get it back," I said firmly. Whoever's fault this winds up being, this is no time to point fingers. We've still got Martin, and if these crazy-ass assassins can get here, they can get almost anywhere. Their information is disturbingly accurate. "I found Martin. Hey! Martin! You still down there?" Striding into the hall and popping my head over the railing, Martin looked up, a rather doubtful expression on his face. He _could _just say it, I can see he's thinking it: 'no, I've hopped off to Oblivion for a pint'. "Good!" Oh – priest. Are they allowed to go drinking? Somehow I don't think so – not like we guildmembers do anyway. "Come on – I'll make the introductions," I announced grimly when Jauffre didn't snap out of his reverie immediately.

"What? Oh, yes…yes let's…salvage what we can." Shaking himself, Jauffre followed me back to the ground level.

"Jauffre, this is Brother Martin, your missing heir. Martin, this is Grandmaster Jauffre – the one I told you about. The man with the answers." If not the plan, or the Amulet of kings, came the mental end of the sentence. Reaching ground level I knelt and closed the Prior's eyes as Jauffre finished the descent, folding the dead man's hands over his chest. I get the horrible feeling I won't be able to do much else.

"It is good to see you, my lord," Jauffre bowed at the waist. "But we have no time, we must make for safety. Can you ride at all?"

Jauffre was, I realized, talking to me. I didn't argue at my inclusion – I suppose I figured I'd wind up going anyway. "Yeah – pretty well." Very well – I was learning to ride when most girls are learning that pink is always appropriate (except in my case, being a redhead) and perfume is a good thing (still allergic).

"Then we shall take the horses. We must make for Cloud Ruler Temple- it's to the northwest of Bruma…"

Fetching backwoods travel. I'll have to ask Martin about the little compass again, or we're all going to get hopelessly lost. Travelling with Dagmar taught me this: never assume that someone else has any better sense of direction than you do.

In my case, it means you need a map and compass. Or better yet, a _road_. With signposts.

"Will Martin be safe there?" I asked. Not that he needs babysitting, when he doesn't get ambushed by a veritable army. I think he actually understood I didn't mean this as a slur on his abilities, but as a Fighters' guild agent inquiring about the safety of her client.

"Safe enough – no place is truly safe anymore..." Jauffre said. "But it is better defensible than this place," he waved to the priory. "Give me moment to gather a few things."

"I'll give you a moment to explain things to Martin," I announced flatly, glowering slightly at Jauffre's retreating back. "He deserved some answers before we drag him gallivanting off all over the Empire," I finished under my breath. "I'll get the horses ready."

Martin gave me what might have been a grateful look, but I shook my head. "Don't thank me yet – you're still in trouble and he's still not talking. Fetching Blades." I rolled my eyes.

Martin chuckled. "Nevertheless."

It did not take long for me to saddle up the paints, estimating stirrup length for the men and hoping I didn't set them to low. Returning inside, I found Martin sitting in a chair, looking thoughtful, if a little pensive. "Well?"

He shook his head, getting to his feet, but I waved him back to sitting. No point getting up – we're apparently not ready to leave yet. What's taking the old guy so long?

"So much for my getting out of your hair. Still…how're you holding up, by the way?" Might as well make conversation, neither of us likes uncomfortable silences.

"Well enough," Martin responded reservedly. "I suppose I'm taking your assertions a little more seriously than before."

Nodding I forced a grin. "See? I try not to get on people's nerves and look what happens. I wind up volunteering for something else." Shaking my head I tried not to show how tired I was feeling. It's almost more of a mental exhaustion than a physical…

"Ailirah?" Jauffre called from upstairs.

Following his voice, I found him in the same room where I'd first met him, fiddling with a pack. What drew my eye lay on his reading table.

"Silent Partner!" I chirruped, swinging forward to heft the blade, resisting the urge to dance around, spinning it in deadly practiced fashion. Bad for the furniture, and it might scare Jauffre a bit. I know I've got it under control, but he wouldn't. It was with some amusement I noted Jauffre's expression, a mix of surprise and incredulity that a little thing like me could wield the weapon, let along pick it up. "How'd you get it?" I asked. My beautiful Silent Partner, I swear the axes were just a fling!

"Baurus. It arrived shortly after you left." Jauffre held out a piece of paper, which I took, balancing Silent Partner comfortably against my shoulder.

_A warrior's soul is in her sword. Try not to lose it again. Baurus_

Ouch, but I grinned, looking for a safe place to tuck the note.

"What is _that_?" Martin asked, looking shocked when I trotted downstairs with the massive sword over my shoulder. Well, _I_ call it a sword, and as it's mine...

"This is my much beloved proper weapon. Silent Partner," I announced. "Daddy made it for me."

Martin goggled at it, as I continued grinning.

"Don't underestimate us – we're a tough team." I warned.

Martin smiled slightly, a little incredulously, perhaps but still. "I believe you."

You know, I think he actually does.

--A--


	12. Chapter 12

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Sorry this took so long – real life got underfoot!

--A--

Chapter Twelve

--A--

"So where're we going and are we taking Ero…the Dunmer?" I asked as I double checked my horse's tack. I wasn't the only one – you _always _check your horse's tack yourself. Just in case anyone's messed with it. Not that I would, but if I was double checking, they should too, so I took no offense. Both men had to shorten the stirrups a bit.

Oh well, I tried. Swinging onto my paint's back, the gentle mare continued to nose through her feeding trough. "No, no Eronor will stay here," Jauffre answered briskly, stepping up onto his horse's back and giving the beast a couple experimental directions with the reins. I get the impression Jauffre doesn't ride much. "We're going somewhere safe."

"Like where?" Martin asked, tiredness showing on his face.

"Cloud Ruler Temple." Jauffre answered.

I shot Martin a look. See? He'll answer _your_ questions, even if he'll ignore mine.

"And that requires cutting cross-country, doesn't it?" Martin asked again.

"Yes. Not to worry, my lord, I know the way." Jauffre was giving me a look indicating he knew I had gotten Martin and myself lost at least once prior to getting here. Jauffre kicked his horse to a walk at this. Drawing up beside Martin, who was giving Jauffre a dubious look as he kicked his own horse to a walk, let me see better that it wasn't just fatigue. He's come close to overstretching himself again.

Magicka is supposedly like any muscle. If you don't work it, it gets weak, flaccid, which makes me wonder: what did he do before he was a priest? "You'd better give me your hand," Martin murmured, holding out his.

I handed over the requested appendage and felt the magicka burn in my hand. This time, expecting it, I didn't flinch or jerk away. "Can you make it…permanent?"

"I can teach you how to renew it." Martin answered simply. "The spell sleeps in your skin, until you or someone else takes it off. Might be useful for you."

Grinning I looked at the compass, taking a moment to amuse myself by moving my hand around so I could watch the arrow move around. "How?" I asked eagerly.

The sign was not complicated. Despite my assertions that I'm a Mundane, plain and simple, I _felt_ the burn of something as I spoke the syllables making up the sign, like getting something too spicy on my lips, making them burn. The third try (I kept trying to lick the spicy sensation off, thus breaking my concentration on the spell) yielded results - a small fizzling pop of magicka that made the compass flare brightly again.

"Mundane indeed,." Martin shook his head.

"Well, that's what I always thought." I responded with an unabashed shrug. I didn't mind being a Mundane. It's kind of neat to be able to do things like this compass, though. Every traveler really should have one. My brother Brutus won't budge from the main road without one – so consequently he always has one, hanging off his belt.

"When we get to Bruma I'd like to send a message to my family. They're going to go nuts, if they're not there already." I called to Jauffre.

"They'll figure you're dead, hmm?" Martin asked. Having heard enough about my family, he understood well enough that they're a little – a little too conscientious when it comes to keeping an eye on me.

"Oh yeah,." I nodded ruefully. "Or worse, they'll show up in person, thinking Jauffre's kidnapped me and they're try to kick his ass," I whispered, causing Martin to spasm as he repressed a laugh. Jauffre didn't hear the remark, but the silence made him glance back.

Looking about innocently I wondered if the Blade believed it. "See," I continued the conversation with Martin, kicking my horse to walk a little faster, "I told Modryn Oreyn in Chorrol I had stuff to do. He said he'd cover for me, but with all the weird stuff cropping up, they're going to know I'm gallivanting around, but not why. That'll make them nervous."

_That_ is an understatement. Grinning to myself, I imagined the scene - Bellona and Einar perched somewhere, within Brutus' and Rogerik yell and rage. Julius mumbling dire threats of grunt work for me when he finds me, plumbing the depths of the guild's contacts to see if anyone's seen me. And Markos – he'll be waiting for Julius to tell him where I am, then he'll pack up, ride off, and drag me back kicking and screaming. I need to find a way to prevent that eventuality…

"Well, that's a wicked smirk. Dare I ask?" Martin asked rather lightly. I've noticed he's more comfortable around me this last day or so, as if he's figuring out how to decode what I say to get to what I _mean_.

"Eh?" I looked over. "Just musing," grinning toothily at this, I returned my eyes forward, keeping an eye on the terrain. Before us, at a distance but drawing ever nearer, loomed the Jerall mountains. Snowcapped and massive, forming the borders between Cyrodiil and Skyrim.

--A--

"How are you holding up?" Martin asked, many hours of riding later.

It was cold now, as we picked our way behind Jauffre, rising a few feet up for every few feet we went forward. I rather suspect that these sort of 'secret routes' really do get you to a place quicker than one might expect. Still, it's hard on the horses. "I learned to doze in the saddle as a kid. How about you?"

Martin shrugged. Most guys won't admit to being anything less than perfect in front of a girl, unless they want sympathy from said girl – like when they're sick.

Four brothers, remember? And Julius in particular is good at playing pathetic (playing, because I've seen him pull that stunt and then mercilessly make me run his errands. No sick person could be that merciless, or change his tune that fast.)

On the downside, we didn't stop in Bruma. I have got to get down there, first opportunity, or I'm going to find the whole guild in an uproar. It's probably already there. A spark of thought, like a draft of fresh air crossed my mind. Maybe I _should_ let them stew. I'm grownup, after all. I may still be their little sister, as well as the guild Mascot, but I _am_ full-grown.

I feel a little a guilty about this, but you know, I'm getting tired of not being able to do things I want to do my way, because my brothers are paranoid. I should write Bellona – she'll make them see reason. If she can't Einar might, if he thinks I'm not just fooling around.

And they should all consider that I have never been one to 'just fool around.'

"There, up ahead," Jauffre pointed up into the darkened sky. From his hand drifted green sparks, which he waved in a rather complicated pattern, as if without thinking about it, or as if his sleeve had caught fire and he was trying to wave the flames out.

Martin, being somewhat more practical than playing with pretty lights, waved a hand before his eyes, and they flared blue and black – nighteye. I can tell you what a spell is by effects, if not by firsthand knowledge. It's smart to know. It won't save you if a fireball is flying in your direction, but it does help in _other_ situations.

Martin reached over, waving his hand before my eye. I stifled a choke, turning it into a cough as my eyes felt odd – cold, almost numb – as my vision washed blue, as if someone had poured ink over them, except instead of blinding me, it let me see. "Thanks," I whispered with a grin.

Now I could see better, I could pick out what had at first looked like part of the mountain. Massive stone walls shot straight vertical, hinting at very deep cellars.

Cloud Ruler Temple was Akaviri in construction, massive, like a floating stone barge in the middle of a sea of clouds and long drops. "This is the stronghold of the Blades," Jauffre narrated as I picked out, very high above, small lanterns, and the top of the battlements. "We train our new brothers and sisters here, come here in times of trouble."

No sooner had Jauffre said this than the sound of hooves greeted us. The green sparks suddenly made sense. "Stand and be recognized," a male voice demanded neutral.

"It is I, Jauffre," here, Jauffre said something that I couldn't quite decipher.

Martin didn't look any better informed, so I leaned over in the saddle to whisper. "What's with the secret codes and the passwords?"

"Sounds about right, actually," he murmured, shaking his head.

Stifling a grin I listened in on Jauffre's conversation.

"I've brought news as well as our lord, Martin Septim, and Ailirah of Leyawiin."

"You brought…but that's not possible…" the clatter of hooves started up again,.

I realized why I couldn't see the Blade, kicking myself for not realizing it earlier – he was wearing a spell, of chameleon, or invisibility. Within seconds of this realization, I could easily pick out the wrinkle in the air that was a human shape. Of course, a moment later he materialized abruptly, revealing a Redguard in Akaviri style armor, a katana like Baurus' slung across his shoulders.

"My lord, it's an honor to receive you. We've not had the honor of an Imperial visit for many years." The Blade bowed as well as he could in the saddle, and I gave Martin's ankle a tap with my foot when he look ready to sit there uncomfortably.

"I, ahem," he cleared his throat. "Thank you."

I nodded encouragingly. Best to just be polite.

"This is Cyrus," Jauffre turned in his saddle. "Let's not linger overlong, Cyrus, we need to get our lord to safety, quickly."

"No kidding – you've had people on your trail since you got into the mountains…"

"How'd you know that?" I asked, kicking my horse forward so I didn't have to shout. I didn't notice anyone following us. Then again, I'm no pathfinder.

Cyrus turned in his seat. "We've got contacts. Watchers," he shrugged evasively. "Don't worry – they won't be leaving the mountains."

"Once it's clear, call them all back," Jauffre commanded briskly.

"Circling the wagons," I murmured softly to Martin.

"I'm sorry?"

"Circling the wagons, they're battening down for a fight." I murmured, glancing back over my shoulder. I didn't see anything, but that spot between my shoulder blades started to itch. Some people call it paranoia, but it's saved my life a time or two.

"What have wagons to do with anything?"

I considered, finding the best way to explain it. "It's how Yokudan caravans protect themselves. You circle the wagons for protection, when you come under attack. They provide cover," I answered.

"Ah."

It's a quaint expression to someone who's never had to circle the wagons. I've done it twice – with literal wagons, mind you. Just because the Fighters' Guild has guildhalls in almost every major city, doesn't mean that members for one city to another or one province for another don't travel back and forth.

The horses were passed off to another Blade, who met us by the massive gates. Uncertainly, I followed Martin, Jauffre and Cyrus, hanging back a little a bit as we hiked up the hundreds of low-set stone steps, leading up to a sort of open terraced courtyard, paved over. The effect was impressive to say the least. Magelights flickered in paper lanterns bearing the Imperial Seal, their lights reflecting on the faces, in the eyes and on the blades of the assembled Blades, appearing over the edge of the stone stairway, inch by inch, step by step, all backed by the temple complex's arching roofs.

The Blades didn't stand in military order, they simply congregated with a sort of learned regularity. They had room to move, to maneuver but without looking rigidly organized. They parted in one series of movements, exposing a sort of corridor between them, six feet wide, up which Jauffre led the others. I stopped at the opening of this corridor, as Jauffre stopped on the second or third stair of the small stairway that led to the secondly level of the courtyard, backed by the actually temple complex.

A small city in the clouds, and I bet very few people know it's here.

"Brothers! Sisters!" Jauffre raised his arms, drawing attention to himself. His face shone slightly pale and gaunt in the firelight. Though nowhere near as pale as Martin. I could tell he didn't like all these strange people staring at him. Planting my feet, I adapted an attitude of waiting, Silent Partner resting like a staff in my hand. "Dark times are upon us. The Emperor and his sons were slain on our watch. The Empire is in chaos. But there is yet hope. Here is Martin Septim, true son of Uriel Septim!"

Martin visibly flinched, but no more as Jauffre moved so that all the Blades would have an unobstructed view of their new lord. Or, would-be lord. Or whatever he actually is. I'm glad it's him they're gawking at, not me. I hate being the center of attention like that – it's really uncomfortable. "Your Highness. The Blades are at your command. You will be safe here until you can take up your throne." Jauffre bowed.

Martin inclined his head uncomfortably, then steeled himself. When he looked up to speak, his entire body posture changed, from supreme discomfort to someone braced for action. Good on you for pulling it together. A smile touched my face and I nodded approvingly. Adapt quickly – it's something you learn in the guild, or you find a new occupation. Or you die, but I don't like to talk about that. "Ah, well, thank you. The honor is mine." Martin looked over all the assembled blades before looking in my direction. I nodded slightly, encouragingly.

It always helps to have a single familiar face to look at when you're delivering a speech. I remember how upset I used to get with the few times I had to do public announcements. They don't bother me anymore, but still. I used to pick out one of my parents, brothers, or guildmates and pretend I was addressing them, and no one else. It worked for me.

"I know you all expect me to be Emperor. I'll do my best. But this is all new to me. I am unused to giving speeches. I simply wanted you to know I appreciate your welcome here. I hope I prove myself worthy of your loyalty in the coming days. Ah…that's it. Thank you." He half-raised a hand as if in benediction but checked himself.

I winked - no one was watching me anyway, except maybe Jauffre and Cyrus. Honesty's the best policy – particularly when you're under scrutiny. You did good, Martin. I'll have to make it a point to let him know. He looks like he could use a little encouragement.

"Thank you very much, indeed, my lord," Jauffre bowed.

The Blades cheered – Martin actually started to color, looking confused and uncomfortable again. Minutes later, the Blades were dismissed, though Cyrus and several others hovered close at hand.

Trotting up the clearing courtyard I grinned. "Not bad for your first speech," I offered gregariously.

Martin let out sort of chuckle of nervous relief, looking bolstered that at least one person thought so. It's true. I like speeches short and sweet – don't weigh the issue down, just let people get on with what they're doing, or should be doing. People like brevity, let me tell you. "Not much of a speech, though, was it?" he ruffled his hair awkwardly as I perched on the next terrace up, kicking my heels against the wall flanking the short stairway leading up. "They didn't seem to mind, though."

"When in doubt, keep it simple," I advised, Brutus' maxim floating in my head.

_KISS: Keep it simple, sister._

"At least you _could_ say something. I hate being in front of a crowd," I responded with a shrug. "Not much for speech-making either."

"The Blades saluting me…hailing me as Martin Septim." Martin's expression crinkled. "I don't mean to sound ungrateful…" he said then aborted the apology when I arched my eyebrows and shrugged.

"Don't worry about it. If our spots were reversed I'd have told you to lay off the skooma at least twice. You actually heard me out." After calling me crazy at least once, which is not nearly as big a slam as the skooma comment. All in all he was far more graceful about it than I would be, under the same circumstances.

Cyrus choked and Jauffre murmured that this was just 'her way'. Gee, thanks Jauffre. This is _my_ conversation, after all. With my _friends_ – trust me, we're friends whatever else we do professionally. Decidedly – you don't go cross-country kicking all asses and _not_ end up friends on some level. Unless you wind up taking potshots at each other, but as that didn't happen…

"Regardless," Martin responded levelly. "I know I would be dead by now if it weren't for you. Thank you. I would have done it…" he motioned to the courtyard. "…back there, but didn't think you'd appreciate everyone staring at you. Guess I was right." He sounded a little surprised.

We'll, I'm a little tough to figure at first, but once you get started, I'm not all that complicated. I don't think so, anyway. "Too right," I grinned. Everyone likes to be thanked. I don't usually expect it, so I'm always surprised and pleased to hear it. "Don't worry about it," I patted his shoulder bracingly. Hmm – maybe I ought to be more formal, if he's supposed to be the emperor.

However, Martin didn't flinch this time, but looked amused. in fact he reached up and returned the gesture, a little hesitantly. "Everyone expects me to suddenly know what to do. How to behave." Shaking his head at this new responsibility, he crossed his arms, frowning at the flagstones.

Ah, I see. Guess I'd want at least one person to see him as 'just another guy' for awhile longer. I take this as permission to continue as I am. Good. "Don't look to me for behavior tips – someone might just push me off a cliff so I don't teach you any bad habits. Goodness knows I've got plenty…"

"With four brothers," Martin grinned at me, as though he couldn't quite believe I was still apparently unruffled by circumstances, but at the same time glad I wasn't.

Well, it won't do for all of us to act worried, regardless of the fact that we all are. A little positive attitude helps any situation – though I have no intention of being stupid about my optimism. I'm not a fool, whatever other people might tell you.

"They want an Emperor to tell them what to do. And I haven't the faintest idea..."

"I can help with that," I responded bracingly, when he fell silent, brows knitting together. "First of all, you're a priest – you give advice every day. Stick to what you know, how you'd treat your…flock..." I fumbled for the right word, earning myself amusedly arched eyebrows, "and when you don't know, find someone who does. Want to hear what I know?" I asked.

Martin's expression lightened and he nodded in a 'sure, go ahead' sort of way.

"We've got to retrieve the Amulet of Kings." I couldn't help casting a Jauffre an 'I can't believe you _lost_ it' look. I walk around with it in my pocket for a month and he loses it in under a week. Doesn't that seem a little incongruous to anyone else?

"Of course. The Amulet of Kings. So we...I...can take it to the Temple of the One and light the Dragonfires." Something in his face hinted that while he was worried, it might not be about what one would assume.

"Martin?"I asked gently. It looks like a pretty daunting task to me – time to put my optimistic game face on. We don't need any more fatalistic, pessimistic or daunted faces around here. I'll pretend optimism – maybe someone will feel bolstered by it. It's not raining flaming dogs, we're still okay, after all.

Shaking himself he forced a slight smile before shaking his head wearily. "Nothing, it's nothing."

Don't lie to me. But I'll let it go for now. I'm not the sort to pry without reason. It's not nice.

"Emperor...there's an idea that will take some getting used to," Martin shook his head.

"Well, you don't need to worry about it yet. Worry about keeping yourself alive." I advised.

Martin chuckled. "I suppose that's as good a place to start as any."

"Absolutely," I hopped off my perch, landing comfortably, like a cat before straightening up. "It's always helpful to be alive when you embark on any import…what?" I blinked at Cyrus who was coughing. Really – what? I know it's a little obvious, but people tend to take 'being alive' for granted when embarking on these sorts of ventures.

Apparently he'd tried to laugh and tried to stifle it too fast. "Is….Is she serious?" he asked Jauffre, rather than me.

"I'm afraid so."

--A--


	13. Chapter 13

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Thirteen

--A--

Jauffre sighed. "Yes, it's her idea of a practical plan. She's perfectly serious." I could tell didn't half-believe it himself, leading me to suspect that the only reason he wasn't bugging eyes at me - well, _reasons - _were that Cyrus was doing just fine with the bug-eyed looks and since Jauffre was in charge, he felt he ought to show a little more decorum.

Whatever- it's been a long day. "It _is_ practical," I grunted, then winked at Martin. His mouth twitched, I could almost see him mentally bracing himself not to laugh at whatever I let run out of my mouth next. Well - you all need to laugh more, it's good for you. "Seriously. When's the last time a dead guy got anything done? Effectively, I mean."

Jauffre was the only one not trying to fight a smile. This springs from a conspicuous _lack_ of a sense of humor, I'm certain. No wonder he looks so old, even if he kicks ass in a fight - he's lost his sense of humor. It's sad, really. I suppose I'll just have to work double-time to make up for it. This thought caused an impish grin to creep across my features and…yep - there he goes. Martin's caught on. I wondered how long it would take - he's a fast learner. Guess he would be kind of perceptive, being a priest and needing to gauge people's reactions.

He shook his head very slowly, almost imperceptibly, to the point that I could almost hear him, 'give the old guy a break'.

Arm or leg? Though obviously he didn't get this appended comment, since no one can read minds. I continued to smirk, but kept my mouth shut, trying to look innocent and probably failing - or at least, that's what I'd like to think.

"Regardless, she's quite correct. We must recover the Amulet of Kings, lest the enemy take it out of our reach." Jauffre was saying, rather calmly. Overlooking the lack of a sense of humor, I've got to admit that whole 'calm under all circumstances' would be a good skill to have. He's got nothing on Dagmar though.

"Well, I can go..." I started, quite seriously.

"Enough jokes, please," Jauffre announced, looking tired.

Joke? Well, I might tease a little, but _joke_? Not in this situation. With a sigh I rolled my eyes. "Then can I get down to Bruma? Soon? I need to leave word with the Guild that I'm alive and apparently still on other business." I declared, leaning on Silent Partner. "Before my family gets _antsy_. You don't want them kicking in the door, it'll be a big mess."

Cyrus stopped staring incredulously at me, eying my weapon instead. Yeah, I _can_ use it. _Effectively. _

"At the moment, though, it is late." Jauffre gave me a piercing look, as if some stray thought rattled about in his head. "You have proven yourself a loyal servant of the Empire," it sounded like it cost him something to admit that someone as apparently blasé about important matters could be, "as worthy as any of the Blades to stand by Martin's side during this crisis." Or more likely, in front of him, in the way of swords, knives, maces and other objects gears towards causing me _pain and suffering_. All in the name of Mehrunes Dagon, I'm sure.

I love zealot-idiot-mindless-fanatics. They run right up to you without a thought or care in the world and can't understand why _they're_ dead and you're _not_. Not usually very smart, but that's why I call them 'mindless fanatics'.

"Thanks…I think…" I don't know. Does that work out to a compliment? I think so, but his expression makes me wonder. Still, since I'm here I might as well _help_, however I can. And I like Martin. This mission has the advantage over the usual in that I know him well enough - I think - to not mind putting myself in dangerous situations. Usually that's something I do for strangers.

Plus - and I'm going to kick my own ass later for thinking like this - it's the making of a great story! You've got a prince, you've got a Fighters' Guild agent to keep things in line! How often does a thing like this come around? And what kind of idiot walks away from the chance to say 'yeah, I was there'?!

"As the Grandmaster of the Blades, I would be honored to accept you into our order. Will you join us?"

I choked on a giggle, then stopped when I realized no one else was laughing. "Me? Join the Blades?" You've _got _to be kidding - _me? _Little Miss Fighters' Guild, _with_ an unconventional sense of humor, _w__ithout_ a whole lot of strict discipline, and a penchant for playing down seriousness? _The Mascot?!_

Jauffre winced, and nodded, levelly. Ah, he's spotted this problem too. I wonder if it has anything to do with what Emperor Uriel said - or is it more because I get results? Or both. It could be both.

"Hn." looking over at Martin I shrugged. "I don't know - do you want me to stick around?" They're his bodyguards, after all, he ought to get a say in this. I'm not saying I won't continue to help, as much as I can, I'm simply saying I don't _need_ to be a Blade to do it.

Martin looked startled at being asked for his opinion on the matter. "I…can't advise you…"

"It has nothing to do with 'advising'," I responded. "It comes down to whether or not you think my attitudes help or hinder. Far be it from me to elbow my way in where I'm not wanted."

Martin looked from the surprised Jauffre to the dubious Cyrus, then back at me, a smile beginning to play across his mouth. "All right."

"There you have it, count me in. Still need to leave word in Bruma, though." I announced. "Or else these assassins are the least of our problems…you know how messy family business is," I grumbled softly, not really intending the second half of the sentence for public consideration.

"Tomorrow is soon enough for that," Jauffre shook his head. "Cyrus, I'm giving you a new younger sister." Jauffre waved at me.

"Oh, not another brother!" I wailed theatrically, throwing up one hand, maintaining my grip on Silent Partner with the other.

"'Another Brother'?" Cyrus murmured, arching his eyebrows.

"She's got four," Martin supplied, smiling slightly.

I chuckled and winked at him. See? It's better to laugh about these things, and be amused. "Don't worry, I can deal with it." Grinning I walked up, held out a hand to Cyrus, who obviously expected a limp fish handshake, but got a proper one instead. "Ailirah of Leyawiin. Fighters' Guild, and…"

Martin suddenly choked and twitched oddly, as if for amount he couldn't breathe.

"Martin?" I asked calmly. Panic is contagious, so my tone held only firm concern. His eyes flickered oddly for a moment, the pupils turning white, though I think I was the only one to notice as Jauffre and Cyrus immediately started to do what could only be called the _Nervous Blade Jitter_. Come on, guys, it's not like he's some swooning sprinkling- have you _seen _this guy in a fight? Well _I_ have - he's got more starch than that. Good grief.

Then Martin blinked dizzily, shaking his head, back to normal.

"Are you all right…." Jauffre began.

"What did you See?" I've seen this before, so I remained relatively calm. What's interesting, though, is that this is the second time, possibly the third, that a Septim has had one of these future-seeing episodes in my presence. I seriously hope it has nothing to do with _me _and everything to do with _coincidence. _Yes, I believe in coincidence.

"It wasn't a true vision but..." he paused again, looking at me as though he'd never seen me clearly, which unnerved me actually. "They'll call you Gatewalker, before the end."

"Who?" I asked, blinking slowly, feeling the gravity of the words seeping into my very soul, as if they were fat raindrops, seeping into the ground.

Martin smiled ruefully, as though he half-wished it wasn't true. "Everyone."

Damn. I hate widespread notoriety. Half the world calls you a killer, the other half tells you your ass is too big. You can't win for losing. I smiled though, my usual answer to thing is can't control, so long as said things aren't trying to kill me. "Well, you know what they say about forewarned being forearmed," I shrugged, once again downplaying the seriousness. Besides, the wording makes me think I have time to get used to the idea before it happens.

_Before the end._ I'm not sure I like the sound of that.

--A--

Sleeping in general quarters with the rest of the Blades was almost like being back at one of the guildhalls. Except the Blades apparently don't need bed frames, or mattresses proper. They sleep on thin mattresses on a thickly mat-covered floor. Weird, huh? Fortunately, they like baths like the rest of the Empire, so I didn't have to worry about any weird little eccentricities. Just me, the water, the tub, and the bayberry soap. It's _great _to be clean.

On the other hand, being achy and somewhat exhausted, it didn't matter much to me. The pillow was soft, the blanket fluffy and _I_ went out like a light, only to be awakened early the next morning by light drifting in overhead, making the dust motes sparkle like bubbles in golden wine. The bay of windows was actually set near the ceiling, so that no Blade would ever be awakened by direct sunlight in the eyes - a practicality the Fighters' Guild could learn a few things about.

Feeling clean (as well as loving the bayberry soap available for my use), I was more than happy to put up with any kind of initiation, induction hazing, beasting, beating or other harassing of the rookie - even unholy early mornings. I'm not much of a morning person, but I can work myself into a 'let's go get 'em' state of mind, given an hour or so, as well as proper motivation.

I lived through it once, I can do it again. Problem is, I don't take it lying down, so if they want to pull jokes, be ready for some to come back around. You know how these things are. Plus, I can use every tactic I ever saw any of my brothers use on a rookie - I refused to join the so-called fun - if need be. Do you know how nearly bottomless that make my bag of tricks, pranks and paybacks? _Very_ nearly.

I wasn't having as much trouble with being rousted by Cyrus at the crack of dawn, to get me outfitted and equipped like a proper blade and not some flea-bitten mercenary. This comment earned him a dirty look –which he ignored –and a couple of jabs in Ta'agra, which he didn't understand. The intent was pretty clear, though, and he laughed. If he had known what I actually _said_, he _wouldn't_ be laughing…so I laughed as well, at his naiveté in the world of foreign curses and slurs.

Really Cyrus –you shouldn't be laughing. It's not that funny. Still, I like Cyrus - he's gregarious, and chatty. Granted, most of what he had to say involved the local culture –and by that I mean Blade lore - but it was all very interesting. Additionally, it made me wonder if I hadn't fouled up by joining. The Blades seem to have a sense of dignity I could never pull off. I'm too impulsive…then again, a little impulsive might just be what this lot needs, if Jauffre is any indication of how they end up.

What I was having trouble with were the funny clothes the Blades wear under their armor, so I looked pretty rumpled. What'd I say about not having the proper sort of dignity for this job?

In the chill of the local environment, I was glad of the new attire my other stuff would have gotten very cold very quickly, otherwise. First came the long sleeved cotton trousers and the long-sleeved shirt that crossed closed over my torso, tying off with little ties in place of buttons down one side, _almost_ like a Khajiiti _budi_, but not quite. Then came the heavier clothes over these. The trousers I had no trouble with, the shirt, which wrapped like the undershirt was easy too. The sash was giving me problems, as it was too long to be practical. After several vain attempts to figure it out I simply tied it in a massive bow, scowling as I did so - hence why I looked so rumpled.

"Here," Cyrus looked hesitant.

I undid the clumsy bow, handing the article over, readjusting the lovely green tunic-like shirt as Cyrus wrapped the sash twice, explaining the general concept, before showing me how to tie the knot, before undoing it and letting me do the complete the process for myself. Shifting the knot to the back, I glanced in the mirror. I look good in green, and I look better now that I'm clean.

The blouse didn't reach to my wrists, only about halfway down my forearm, which allowed the light cotton to protect my arms from my own bracers, but at the same time without causing uncomfortable crinkles, by pinning the wide sleeves. "These look funny," I announced, admiring the effect. "But pretty." Reaching up I began to braid my hair back into a queue - I never run around with my hair loose if I'm wearing armor. Not only does chainmail tend to reach out and grab stray hair, it's not a good idea to have it whipping around in a fight,w here anyone can grab hold of it. I don't have the necessary pins to…

"You'll want these," Cyrus produced a pair of slender wooden pins, lacquered black, the length of my hand.

"Ah, thanks," I took the pins and within moments had my hair coiled and pinned tightly to my skull. It pulled uncomfortably, and would for the first five or ten minutes, at which point my hair would relax a little, and the coil would be comfortable, but wouldn't fall out.

On the other hand, I found myself thinking, if I wound up in Oblivion in this mess, the heavy stuff is going to have to go, or I'll _roast_. The thought that there might be a next time, that I was actually considering and preparing for a next time was disturbing. Don't go borrowing trouble.

"They're Akaviri," Cyrus pointed out, walking over to a wall and sliding it open effortlessly, as I registered the massive dragon motif painted on its face. Dragons - looking around I found a lot more, several carved into the bases of the pillars supporting the roof, several faces in the walls...talk about an extreme of a theme.

Anyway, not a wall - a closet. He found a rig of armor and pulled it off its pegs, and within moments had popped it over my head. It was not as heavy as my chainmail, but it was cumbersome, with lots of flaps and fastenings. It feels like light armor, but it's _so_ damn cumbersome - I made up my mind then and there. I'm not going to wear this stuff for anything serious - it'd be in my way. However I remained patient through the outfitting.

"Can you actually use that?" Cyrus motioned to Silent Partner, sitting forlorn on a long bench, gleaming in the morning sun which poured through the paper-covered windows. I also suspected magical glass in the windows, too, because there was no breeze or cold air. The diffuse light certainly gave the place a warm, meditative ambiance.

"Of course I can. Do you want a demonstration?" I asked cheekily.

Cyrus grinned at this. "Later. We've got a lot of ground to cover."

"Okay," I shrugged, and then struggled out of my armor. "I can't fight in this stuff," I announced. "I'll stick with my chainmail."

"You're a Blade now, and Blades wear _this_," he pointed at the armor on the floor.

"Yeah, well, I'm supposed to be fighting the bad guys - and to do that effectively I need that…uh…wherever my chainmail has walked off to." Scowling about I looked for the pile of chainmail, which did not appear anywhere in the outfitting room. Come to think of it, I haven't seen my own chainmail since I shucked it last night.

"While you're here, you stay in uniform," With that Cyrus snatched up the funny armor and popped it back over my head.

Sighing in resignation I started to fumble

--A--

--Author's notes, appended--

'Khajiiti _budi_' it's a kind of shirt worn by the Khajiit in Elsweyr, fastening down the right side of the body.


	14. Chapter 14

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. These next few chapters are going to take some time, owing to the need to get comfortable some some of that character's personalities. Hopefully, it won't take too long.

--A--

Chapter Fourteen

--A--

Cyrus sent me off to get breakfast before we started with the so-called 'fun stuff' – morning sparring. Apparently it's the local pastime. I still wanted to know when I'd be allowed to make contact with the Guild, but refrained from asking, at risk of pestering. If there's no mention by lunch, I'll re-present my request. Otherwise I'm heading off on my own as soon as I can, because obviously my new cohorts aren't listening and therefore have _no clue_ about the trouble they're inviting up for a visit.

Trust me - my brothers are going to think I've been kidnapped, and will feel the need to kick in every door, and kill every individual who appears before their eyes whether they be Blades or not. It's not going to be pleasant. Yeah – no one's going to believe me. They can laugh, but will they still be laughing when I say 'I told you so'?

Surrounded by four Blades, all the while looking supremely uncomfortable as he tried to eat breakfast, Martin looked far more dignified than I did, apparently having refused point blank - and won – that he was going to wear his priest's robes as he'd always done. These had, of course, been laundered, for it didn't look as if he'd spend several days traipsing around the countryside in them anymore. He did not immediately recognize _me_, decked out in my new clothes and armor – also finally, I was perfectly clean, a phenomenon he had yet to witness. Recognition appeared the moment I opened my mouth.

"You'd think you'd never seen a cute, armored-up redhead before," I announced cheerfully, flopping down on the bench opposite him in the great hall – probably to the utter shock and displeasure of the more stickler-for-propriety Blades. Leaning forward, and pushing my cereal slightly off to the side, I cast a look at the Blades in the background. "You know, I'm also starting to think I ought to have stayed freelance." Straightening, shaking my head, I stirred my cereal thoughtfully before applying myself to it.

"Oh…" Martin blinked, his eyes moving across my new style of dress. Or maybe I had something fastened crooked – I looked to double check then gave up. I still don't understand how Cyrus fastened all this stuff. Or maybe he's just not used to high-energy chipperness this early in the morning. For people who got here too late last night, it _is_ a pretty early morning.

"I look weird, I know," I nodded, poking at my cereal again. It tastes healthy – but not exactly yummy.

I grinned – these bodyguards are really making him nervous. He's usually so articulate. "Yes, no…" Martin shook his head, his nose crinkling slightly.

"It's okay – I laughed too. It's this armor, it's driving me nuts," I picked at it then shrugged, feeling the cuirass shift. Wow, as uncomfortable as this thing is, it makes me glad Cyrus never asked if I wanted the heavy armor. I don't think I'd be able to move in that stuff, let alone fight.

I'm also sorry he feels unnerved by all these bodyguards, but there is no way I'm going to open my mouth and tell them to back off. Who was it wishing for about a half dozen meatshields to put between Martin and everything else? Why, I do believe it was me, and now here they are! Though I'd never call the Blades 'meatshields' to their faces – that'd be inexcusably rude. I'd better train myself out of using that word, lest it turn up in conversation.

"Mmm," I nodded noncommittally, more approving my own thoughts on the matter of armor than anything else. "So - any leads? Any plans?" I was chatty all the way up here - it's your turn.

"No. Not yet." Well, it's only been a night – part of me wonders why he's up so early. Maybe it has to do with force of habit. People tend to fall back on comfortable habits, as far and as long as new circumstances allow.

"You're not really a morning person are you?" I asked, propping my chin on one hand and giving Martin a dubious look, tapping my spoon idly against the rim of the bowl.

"No, not really," he answered ruefully, running a hand thought his hair. "What about you?"

Grinning I shrugged. "I _make_ myself enjoy mornings. Or did you mean plans?"

"Plans, of course." But he was amused – his forehead puckers funny when he thinks I'm amusing.

"Well, I just dropped in to say good morning, thinking you might like some company for a bit," I leaned over conspiratorially, resting my weight on my elbows in a way that would earn a sharp reprimand to 'get your elbows off the table, you're not a heathen' back home. Bellona is a stickler for table manners. "Though I think I'm going to get my ass chewed about propriety before long. These Blades are _really_ uptight." I added in a low tone, looking about conspiratorially.

Martin turned his chuckle into clearing his throat, but his eyes danced with repressed humor, of the sort that usually ends in the comment 'I can't believe you just said that.' I suppose being a priest has something to do with repressing one's sense of humor, but it's good to know it's there. I guess he won't have much use for it as Emperor either - though I still can't think of him in terms of that particular office. Personally, I always thought an Emperor _needed_ a sense of humor, to deal with some of the idiots they undoubtedly come across frequently.

I winked at him. That's part of my charm, aside from the freckles - I'm honest, though not exactly tactless. "Cyrus is making noises like he doesn't believe I can actually use this thing," I gave Silent Partner an affectionate tap, smirking. "Think I can get him to bet me on it?" I began chewing idly on the longest fingernail I could readily get to. I do that when I'm thinking.

"Probably."

"Yeah, I might just do that. What do you think? Bet you I can take him." I offered with a grin.

"I'm not such a fool – I've no doubt you _can_." Martin responded easily, though he really did smile at the fool's bet before reaching over for a stack of books I hadn't noticed, as they'd sat unobtrusively on the bench beside him, instead of on the table in full view.

"You're smart, but that's no fun." I pouted for a moment then chuckled. "You want a hint about dealing with those guys?" I nodded to the Blades, still politely pretending to ignore the conversation, though I was sure they weren't. Martin looked at me, the only indication that I had his full attention. I lead forward, lowering my voice. "First of all, you learn to pretend they're part of the scenery – pillars, or bits of the wall, until you need to talk to them. Secondly, always remember I'm Fighters' Guild first."

"What's that got to do with anything?" he queried, looking highly amused.

"Perception. I knew you before you needed a bodyguard. And you knew me before I was a Blade…wow, that sounds _weird_. Besides – that's how I learned to cope with my brothers once I hit the age of sixteen. Ignore them until I need them – and remember that Julius will always bail me out, but won't blab too far." It's true, of the four he's the most discreet, hence why he's my favorite. Doesn't make him any less stifling, but then, we all have our little problems. I'll bitch about it, but I can't really fault them.

Martin chuckled, and nodded. "An interesting strategy. And there's Cyrus. Be gentle."

I snorted on a chuckle. "That's what I like about you, _you _actually take me _seriously_." It's such a refreshing change. I swung off the bench, deposited my dishes then paused at the door to the hall. Martin was still watching, so I waved enthusiastically. Shaking his head slightly he waved back, a little more sedately, before I turned into the brilliant Bruma sunshine.

Breakfast is digesting, it's time for a little bit of exercise.

"You've got no sense of decorum." Cyrus noted, though not exactly critically. It struck me as the sort of tone one uses on the rookie. I suspected he'd put up with my lack of decorum until he decided I'd had enough time to learn some.

Wow – he's going to be really disappointed.

Shrugging, I squinted in the bright sunlight. This high up, the air was clear as crystal, cool and sharp with the sun hanging dazzling overhead. _Give it time_. See, the idea is that sooner or later, Martin will be comfortable with the Blades, and won't need to see distinction between them, and me.

See, if _I _were in Martin's shoes – apart from shuffling right out of them, as we don't wear the same size – I'd want at least one person I knew to remember I wasn't brought up for this. To remember I was still human, and was still in the process of growing into my new role.\

Besides, we're friends.

"So, you ready for a little bit of a workout?" Cyrus asked, shattering my reverie with all the grace of a wounded ogre.

"Sure." I grinned. I could tell that Cyrus – while accepting that I was obviously not unskilled – was still underestimating me. I love it when people underestimate me - it means I win, almost automatically.

I like winning.

"Go easy on me – I'm still a rookie." I announced, allowing a nervous quaver in my voice. I may be shit at lying, but I can fake sweet little rookie till my brain melts. I dunno – there's apparently something about me that screams 'creampuff', 'sweetroll' or 'sweet-thing incarnate'.

I took a moment to find the most comfortable positioning for my hands. Silent Partner's grip is in the exact center, equidistant from the point at either end. I'd say the grip is about, oh, a little over a foot in length, with about two and a half feet of double-edged blade on either side.

The original design is attributed to the Akaviri, albeit not the vampire-snake Akaviri. It must kind of hard to dance around when you don't have feet. Or _knees _- knees are very important. I think it's a Tang Mo weapon, because the first one I ever saw had a little monkey etched above the hilt – though it could simply be coincidence.

The owner – a grizzled old man who apparently knew Einar a _long_ time ago, you know 'back before I met your mother' long time – told me a little about it, but not much. Guess he figured a little girl wouldn't care so much about the bigass weapon on his shoulder. He apparently went north to Akavir – either way, neither I, nor Einar ever heard from him again.

I do remember, very clearly, the demonstration Cooley – that was his name, Cooley – gave, when asked by the cute chipmunk-looking redhead. I'd never seen a _half-Orc _move that gracefully. Granted, it wouldn't be graceful if he actually hit anything, but still. Very light on his feet. That was probably the first time I ever saw a norm so successfully defied – maybe that's why I like defying them myself. Because I _can_.

Still, can't you see it? Hundreds of thousands of Tang Mo swinging around Silent Partners in the face of vampire snake-men? I'd happily admit it, I'd run like hell. Particularly as the Tang Mo are supposed to be certifiably insane.

Hm. sounds like the Guild.

Cyrus took a lazy swing at me, which I parried neatly, the blade of his katana clanking against Silent Partner, and then 'shhk'-ing free as I shifted the weapon left. I love the sound of a sword against another sword, particularly in a sparring environment. Without the fear of death, you can really appreciate the noise. I like the sounds of weapons clanging together in a well-balanced sparring match even better.

The next attack came faster, and my armor began getting in my way. Fortunately, though, not to the point of interfering with my ability to parry.

The third I parried with enough force to tear Cyrus' katana out of his hands, Silent Partner's other end pointed in the general direction of Cyrus' throat. I'm used to stopping in an instant, though this armor makes me a little more ungainly than I'd usually be. I also don't like the way the stuff flaps about when I spin, pivot, or otherwise dodge. I'm liable to get beaten to death before the bad guys ever get a hit in.

Still, I know Silent' Partner's balance, I know how to counter it's weight against my own for a couple of moves dubbed 'spunky' by the local Guildmembers, but I also can stop it on a Septim. It just takes a little time to get used to the new armor.

"Where'd _that _come from?" Cyrus demanded happily, grinned as I swung Silent Partner's point away from him. I suppose it would be a relief not to have to train the rookie from the ground up.

I shrugged.

Within ten minutes Cyrus worked out I was no novice and I was playing his kindness to the rookie unmercifully in my favor.

_Clang_. I grunted as I caught the blow that whisked in from the left, twisting Silent Partner so Cyrus' blade skipped along with a hiss.

_Whack_. Cyrus caught Silent Partner between the blade and hand guard of his sword, forcing me to pull the attack back.

_Clank-wham!_ I caught Cyrus' blow, shifting Silent Partner's free point into the stone, kicking Cyrus in the knee with one foot while using Silent Partner to keep Cyrus' sword away from me. It's not just a weapon—it's an extension of myself. Used correctly, this sort of sword-staff is almost like a wall between the wielder and their enemy.

Or so I've been told.

Cyrus reeled back as I jerked Silent Partner free off the ground with a shout, spinning the weapon in a sunshine-blurred flare of light. He only just managed to block one hit, but failed to stop the other end as I swung it around, pivoting myself to the flat of the off-handed side ran perpendicular to my spine, the flat of the weapon against my back, the main-handed side stopping inches from his neck.

_Control._

"Damn!" The expression was not so much one of frustration as of admiration. "Not bad for a kid," he panted.

I dodged the blow I'd kept my eyes open for, swinging Silent Partner free of its controlled stop.

Where I come from the fight's not over until it's announced by one side or the other that it's over. As Cyrus hadn't said a _thing_ about being 'dead' or 'done', I refused to take for granted that he was. Laughing, I caught the next blow in the slight curve of the blade closest to him, instead of using the reverse side and sending it skipping away. "You getting tired yet?" I demanded playfully.

This just like back home! Finally – my own range of familiarity!

"Ha!" Cyrus barked, shifting the fight to a battle of strength.

I'll lose these every time, but I go into a fight knowing about this handicap. Cyrus simply made the assumption I would have no plan for this sort of eventuality, the mark of someone not used to fighting from a disadvantage. Plus, he's no Dremora. _They're_ bad asses. He's a teddy bear by comparison.

Smirking, I shifted Silent Partner, throwing Cyrus off-balance and tangling our weapons together, falling backwards. Cyrus had to move fast and carefully, so as not to find Silent Partner biting into his arms – a problem I didn't have.

I hit the hard stone in time to move my feet and kick Cyrus in the belly, propelling him off to one side, his sword unable to separate from Silent Partner.

Cyrus went sprawling with a clatter of armor as I regained my feet as quickly as i could, slower than usual because of the damned armor.

That's it – I'll never wear this shit in the real world- it'll get me killed!

Anyway, it was Bellona who taught me a little about incorporating grappling for this sort of occasion. It's not a great move to use in a real fight - you should really stay on your feet - but for sparring it works just fine, and has the added benefit of 'looking good' in case anyone's watching.

I threw Cyrus' sword well away, yelping as a shadow flickered over my shoulder, turning to awkwardly block an attack coming out of my blind spot. I didn't recognize the female Blade, but she was grinning, so I grinned back, and shifted both hands on the grip, as far as they could go, to press against the end of Silent Partner she was pushing against.

The change in the weapon's balance was enough that I could send her stumbling to one side.

Cyrus skittered for his weapon, just beyond the woman's shoulder.

Dead!" I shouted , startling the Blade as Silent Partner stopped, pressing against her midriff.

"Dead." She sheathed her sword, raising her hands and backing up.

I was too slow moving away from her, so my next swing wouldn't inadvertently take her out. "Crap…dead." I raised my arms, Silent Partner held staff-like in one hand, as Cyrus' blade appeared between my left arm and my side.

"Not bad though," Cyrus added.

"You'd never have done it without _her_ help," I announced, though not bitterly. I didn't mind the tag-teaming. How else do you learn to deal with the unexpected? Still, I don't like losing.

"Not bad, though." the woman panted, grinning broadly. "Caroline. You're Ailirah, aren't you?" she undid her helmet and pulled it off, revelation a round Breton face. Caroline was a good five to eight years my senior, hardened, pragmatic-looking, but not without a sense of humor, evidenced by the smile-lines around her mouth and eyes.

"Yeah." Why make it a question? There's only the one rookie running around here. Still, I appreciate the option of being able to supply any nicknames or aliases I might go by. "Nice to meet you."

Caroline chuckled over to Cyrus . "Gregarious little thing, isn't she?" Her voice was full of approval, but I didn't really like the wording.

I'll gregarious _you_ if you keep up with those 'little thing' comments. Did you or did you not just have to bail somebody out of a scuffle with me? Once more, I find myself treated like a kid. Does anyone realize how _frustrating_ that is?

Caroline laughed again at my sour expression. "Guess it's true about redheads, huh?"

"And comments like that _really_ help me defy the norm," I announced darkly.

There was a silent moment before a grin crept back across Caroline's features. "Hey, I can handle that," she nodded. "So, you're arena?"

"Fighters' Guild." I answered almost defiantly. You don't get in and stay in if you're no good.

Caroline nodded, approvingly "They put out good kids."

I looked over at Cyrus, biting his lip in an attempt not to laugh out loud.

"Shit! I go from being the mascot of one organization just to fill the role somewhere else!" Grimacing at the Blades, the expression quickly changed into a grin. "I can't win for losing."

"Put up a hell of a fight, though," Cyrus nodded. "Four brothers, huh?"

"Oh yeah." I nodded. "_And_," I smirked, holding up a finger, "all their friends – and guess were those friends come from?"

"Fighter's Guild," both Blades answered, grinning.

"And I thought it was bad with two. Got a little bit of a reputation to live up to?" Caroline asked sympathetically.

"Not really, no. Once people got tired of me making valid attempts at kicking their asses, the smart comments dropped off dramatically," I answered, resting silent Partner against my shoulder – flat side to the shoulder, obviously.

Caroline let out a barking laugh, with no trace of trying to stifle the sound to something ladylike. This is a person I could really look up to no worried about silly things, very straight forward. "I'll bet – better watch her Cyrus. Her type tend to be _vicious_. Wolverines in a human skin." Caroline winked at me. "I was lucky. I was the eldest –they knew who was in charge long before trouble could start."

"Well, you heard her. Grrr." I flexed 'claws' at him, grinning at Caroline's comment.

Cyrus laughed. "I'll take the hint – but it doesn't get you out of practice with the rest of us."

Caroline snickered and edged over. "Keep your eyes open for ambushes, the guys like to haze the rookies. When Jauffre's not looking, of course."

"While the cat's away the mice will play?" I asked, grinning. I _thought_ things seemed a little too stuffy round here. Except for being the elite, this lot reminds me of the Fighters' Guild.

"You didn't hear it from me," Caroline warned.

"Me neither," Cyrus shook his head.

"So, what do we do now?" I asked, looking from Caroline to Cyrus.

"Try and keep busy. You're supposed to be getting settled." Caroline shrugged.

"Bet Jauffre puts her on his Lordship's detail," Cyrus noted.

"Eh?" I blinked. "Oh – right." Martin. I'm not used to hearing him called 'His Lordship', and given the way the Blades were looking at me, I knew I had better learn to make the connection _really fast._

--A--


	15. Chapter 15

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Fifteen

--A--

"Is it really that great an idea to be so informal?" Cyrus asked.

I made a scornful sound between my teeth as apparently the sparring session was over, resting Silent Partner comfortably against my shoulder. "He doesn't mind."

Both Blades made faces, Caroline's approving, Cyrus' leery. "Jauffre's going to love this," Caroline grinned, making a show of stretching. "I love the smell of insubordination in the morning."

"Insubordinate _shit_." I announced proudly. "You ever see someone _drown_?" I asked as we walked back towards the so-called common room, sandwiched between the barracks and the infirmary.

"What's that got to do with anything?" Cyrus answered.

"Yes," Caroline answered promptly. "Well, _almost_," she corrected herself. "Died later of hypothermia."

"Eew…I'm sorry..." I winced as Caroline shrugged, leading me to believe the individual may not have been a close friend. "Bad metaphor, then. all I know is if it were me, I'd want to _ease_ into a role for which I've never prepared. Slowly – like climbing into the bath, not being dumped face first in a bowl of wine because someone thought my fur was the wrong color…"

"I beg your pardon?" Caroline asked incredulously.

"What?" I blinked perplexedly. I thought I'd spoken quite clearly...though perhaps it was the _topic_ garnering the incredulous looks.

Cyrus rolled his eyes. "Just let her talk, Caro, she likes random sentiments," he announced before continuing forward.

Caroline leaned in, her brow furrowed.

"Okay - pink kitty of doom. You ready for this? Before I officially became the Fighter's Guild mascot, they had this cat named _Killer_…"

Caroline snorted. "What else?"

"Yeah, you laugh now," I shook my head, wholly serious. "This cat was evil incarnate! If he was still alive, I shit you not, I could throw him into an Oblivion Gate, and check back a week later only to find he'd _taken over_." I shook my head. I've got _scars_ on one ankle from the times he attacked me.

_Playing_, they said.

_Kick the cat_, I answered. Literally. It was all funny until Killer started going after Brutus' ankles.

"Anyway, I was fifteen, someone was having party and long story short, someone tried to drown the cat in the wine bowl. Unfortunately... the rookie doesn't realize how evil this cat was. Spraying wine and kitty-curses everywhere, he proceeded to bite and claw everyone and everything in reach before streaking out into the night, never to be seen again. Dyed _pink_. White cat, the wine turned him pink," I shook my head. "From my place of safety halfway up the stairs, I summed it up: 'Behold, the Pink Kitty of _Doom'_. Never found out what happened to him, and I don't really care." I finished.

I like animals in general, but Killer remains one of several very obvious exceptions to this rule.

Caroline shook her head, I could tell she didn't believe me. I don't blame her, it sounds a little far-fetched.

Shrugging, we continued walking in Cyrus' wake.

Unlike the rest of Cloud Ruler Temple, the common room was noise barely contained. This is, apparently, where we can be normal when we're off duty. Though I think 'off duty' is actually a euphemism for 'out from under the watchful eyes of our beloved Grandmaster and the Heir apparent, who must trust us with his life, therefore should only ever see diligence and attention to detail'.

Boy – I don't know who's in for the ruder awakening. Martin realizing the Blades are human (though, he's well-grounded enough in reality I think he already knows about this little snag) or the Blades themselves when they realize just how personable Martin really is. Things would be so much easier if we could make him 'one of us' until he can't be anymore.

That's just my two septims worth.

"You play cards at all?" Cyrus asked, joining a knot of the others.

"Anything but strip poker," I answered with a shrug.

Several people turned at this, as I gave a show of complete unconcern. People _always_ look at you weird if you bring up strip poker. The right answer to these looks is a show of innocence, the appearance that you don't recognize you've said anything odd, wrong, or otherwise unusual.

"Well, deal me in," Cyrus settled in the small group, sliding his sword beneath his chair.

"What about you, sweetheart?" the only Nord I've seen so far asked, shuffling a battered deck of cards.

"Or are you just shy?" Caroline winked at me, settling next to the Nord.

"Eyes off the cards, Caro," he growled.

"Ah, you know I'm just watching you, Rols," she teased, elbowing him before leaning her weight on her elbows, eyeing him speculatively.

"Oh, I'm not shy, I'm just worried about you guys – I usually win." I sat down amidst guffaws. It's true, I wouldn't mind playing down to my underwear – everyone started looking for reasons to duck out about that point anyway. I don't have any emotional involvement with any of them – I don't care how they see me. I'm happy with my looks – apart for being short – so I don't even feel threatened by Caroline, who's tough, blonde, and pretty. I'm short, strong, and shapely – it all balances out.

"Sounds like a pigeon to me." A Breton grunted. "What's your name, Pidge?"

"Pidge is fine," I shrugged, knowing when guys swing nicknames like that around, it's best not to fight it. I've been called worse. "What's the game?"

Smirks around the table.

"None of that," Cyrus intoned. "Not while I'm here, anyway." He added, shaking his head.

"Why? Jauffre got you babysitting?" the Nord asked.

With an apologetic look at me Cyrus nodded. "Yeah."

Well, the truth hurts – doesn't bother me, he doesn't need to babysit me. No need to apologize, either, I've said it that way before, although in the Guild everyone sort of keeps an eye on the rookies. We don't feel the need to assign anyone particular to do it. "Don't worry about me, Cyrus," I grinned. "I think I'll be okay." Four brothers. It's good training for a lot of things. "What's the game?"

It's amazing, really, the way people's personalities come to the surface when they feel secure. Out under watchful eyes, they're a pretty enigmatic lot – barring myself. I tend to wear my opinions and emotions out where people can see them.

The game was Jacks. Yes – I do win a lot. I don't know if its luck, or skill, but I win a lot. Something Rols – full name is Roliand, according to Cyrus – thought I was kidding about skill with the cards.

--A--

You learn a lot about people by playing cards. Namely because in informal games like this one, people chatter. I learned, among other things, we – the Blades – play cards every Fredas. It's the one set night for a group-event. I highly suspect I won't be asked to join in after this.

From what I gleaned from conversation, Cyrus would act like my shadow for a couple weeks, making sure I know what I need to know (and don't mouth off to the wrong people). It was here, also, I learned this sort of mentor was necessary, particularly as rookies would get lost between Bruma and here without a competent guide.

This goes double for me, the Girl with No Sense of Direction.

Also, given the somewhat worried looked Cyrus kept shooting Roliand, I suspect it need to watch my back for trickery, treachery and hazing from him – Rols, not Cyrus. I don't think Cyrus approves of bullying the rookies, but I also think he's in the minority.

Turns out, Cyrus is not as high in the Blades as say, Baurus. I was thinking he was fairly low-down, being saddled with the rookie as he is. Turns out it's a Blades convention that the more experienced members train the less experienced , and hope that some of the decorum and mindset rubs off on the little squirts. Yes, I got called squirt several times, which made me invite the Breton out for another bout of sparring.

Caroline and Cyrus both got sneaky grins – I know they're plotting on me now. Just watch, they're going to orchestrate me picking a fight, in which I will get my clock dusted.

I hope one of these people tries to lock me in the basement. That'll be interesting. Just like dungeon diving, there's the opportunity for ambush when they come check to see if I'm dead.

--A--

"Breezy! Oi! Bree-zee!" I hollered, poking about the Bruma guildhall. It's _the_ single most-understaffed guildhall in the entire guild. The only reason it stays open is because Bruma is a major city, and needs the feeling of security a Fighters' Guild guildhall provides – never mind that there are only two, count them _two,_ permanent members on staff.

"Only one person I know yells that loud this early – what do you want, Ailirah?" Right-Wind hissed from the barracks, the door of which stood slightly ajar. If he sounded a little cranky, I understood why. Argonians don't normally like the cold, being somewhat reptilian themselves. It's not like I stormed in at six-thirty – it's almost two!

"Shut it, or I'm gonna squish you like a bug!" Bumph growled softly.

"They sound serious," Cyrus noted, as if pointing out the sky was blue.

"Oh, they are," I agreed cheerfully, causing Cyrus to give me one of his classically Cyrus dubious looks, "but they've gotta _catch_ me first, and it's never happened before. They'd probably be so surprised if they did it, they'd simply _drop_ me, enabling my escape. You hear that, guys? You're e_nablers_!" I yelled the last part of the sentence for the whole guildhall, as well as most of the street, to hear.

Subtlety? Who need subtlety at a time like this?

Cyrus snickered as a moment later, Bumph and Right-Wind came stomping out of the barracks, looking aggrieved, but not entirely displeased to see me. They just like to complain. Don't we all?

"Good morning!" I chirruped cheerfully at the grouchy Orc and the Argonian.

"Who says?" Bumph asked dryly, eying Cyrus before saying something in Orcish.

Grinning – I understood enough to know she was making a crack about her mace, my bastard sword-staff, my boyfriend (by which she meant Cyrus) and telling my brothers about it. Obviously, she's still sleep befuddled, which set me to giggling wickedly.

"What?" Cyrus asked.

"Well, you're right on two counts – my sword _is_ a bastard cross, and I _do_ need you to tell my brothers something. Tell them I'm up in Bruma on a job – put it though to the couriers," I announced happily as I trotted off in search of a sheet of paper.

"Who are you, and how'd you get roped into babysitting _that _loose cannon?" Right-Wind asked Cyrus, thinking I couldn't hear him. Right-Wind is actually in the least-active branch of the Guild because of an accident some years back, which permanently damaged his hearing – he says he can hear the sea, roaring in his ears. Hence why he _thought_ he was speaking softly, so I wouldn't hear, when in fact, I'll be surprised if half Bruma doesn't hear him before long.

I mean that affectionately.

Scribbling a note to Julius, then another to Bellona and Einar, it took me less than fifteen minutes to sign, seal, and set them out to be posted. "I love being in Bruma!" I announced to no one in particular, watching snow beginning to fall outside, through one of the heavy leaded glass windows.

Joining Cyrus, Right-Wind and Bumph in the kitchen, I drew myself a mug of ale and settled on one of the wooden benches at the small by comparison to the dining room table. This table sees more use –as evidenced by the gouges in the wood, evidence of knife marks, claw marks and – get this – teeth marks.

Don't ask, you _really_ don't want to know…let's just say birthday parties with this group get a little…close to getting out of hand. That's all I'm going to say. Lot of fun, though. "So, what brings you up here again?" Right-Wind asked, slurping softly at his drink.

"I'm a fugitive from justice," I answered calmly, smirking as Cyrus snorted his ale. "Careful." I cautioned.

"Ah, so you ran away again?"

I've been 'running away' to other guildhalls since I turned eighteen. The most extensive woman-hunt lasted all of five days. They ambushed me in Chorrol then dragged me back to Leyawiin, kicking and screaming. Okay, so I'm exaggerating a little…but not by much.

Hey. I wonder—can this whole me sneaking off with Uncle Modryn covering for me constitute as my latest attempt to put a few degrees of separation between myself and my erstwhile, stifling, suffocating brothers? If so, I've just cleared a new record. Hey! Drinks on me! Or they would be, if this was the time or place for such things. I'm a Blade, I suppose I should start trying to act like one.

'Try' because I make no guarantees that the attempt will take. I think it impressed Cyrus, the story I wove together for the benefit of my guildmates. I wasn't exactly lying, unless you count 'omission of details' as lying. I simply told them I was doing a side job, some bodyguard work, and Cyrus was one of my guard-detail teammates. Not a word breathed about Blades, Daedra, assassins, Martin, Jauffre, or a resurgence of the Pink Kitty of Doom.

--A--

"Does _anyone_ take you seriously?" Cyrus asked over lunch at Olav's Tap and Tack.

Looking up from my stew, I shrugged. "Martin does. So does the whole crew down in Leyawiin…and Modryn Oreyn out of Chorrol. Fadus Calidius..."

"I know Calidas..." Cyruz inserted, eyebrows arching.

Part of me wondered if Calidas might not be in with the Blades, even if he might not be one himself. Supposedly the Blades have contacts everywhere. If I wasn't one myself, I might call it an infestation.

"Quite a few people," I continued. "It's mostly the people who don't know me that don't take me seriously. Or guys with something to prove. Doesn't matter, really," I continued after a moment, "If people underestimate me, they're more likely to hold back. In a fight that's a very bad idea."

Cyrus grinned, the skin around his eyes crinkling. "You don't go easy on anyone, do you?"

"Not even my brothers." I answered idly, swinging my spoon back and forth, smirking as I did so. "In all seriousness, I prefer to be a little bit…"

"Enthusiastic?" Cyrus offered.

"Optimistic. Getting too worried or worked up makes you more likely to make mistakes. When you're like me, you can't make too many, or you end up in _trouble_. Hip-deep, falling face-first." Shrugging, I changed the track of conversation. "What about you? How long have you been at this?"

"Years. I came in at nineteen with my cousin." Cyrus face hardened slightly. "You knew him in passing – Glenroy."

I opened my mouth then shut it, looking down into my stew. It didn't taste as good, now, as it had a moment ago. "I'm sorry about him." I wish I knew what to say.

"So'm I." Cyrus grunted. "I kind of hope those bastards pull something," he murmured softly. "I don't like not being able to fight things, just because they don't seem to be there."

"Me neither," I agreed, shoving my half-finished stew aside. "Let's go, I'm done here."

Cyrus nodded, as we both stepped free of the benches upon which we sat.

No sooner, though, we were on our horses, heading back for Cloud Ruler Temple than the discussion we had stopped, lest unwelcome ears hear it, started up again. "Still, it makes sense," I declared, veering my horse to the left to avoid an obstacle. We had to travel off-road a little ways before we could pick up the trail to Cloud Ruler Temple. Fortunately, Cyrus knows the way, so I can't get us lost.

"Does it?" Cyrus grunted.

"Sure. You're planning something _big_, and the next thing you know there's resistance. You didn't count on it, you're not sure what it is, where it's coming form or anything. You pull back, reevaluate the situation. Let the enemy stew for awhile, get nice and jittery. Then you go back on the assault – preferably with a way to distract them." I concluded moodily. I'm no genius, but I can and do like to read.

Cyrus goggled at me.

"You never read the Morrowindan edition of _Advanced Tactics_?" I asked dryly. "It's in there."

Cyrus continued to goggle. "The Telvanni and the Hlaalu use the same thing a lot – fortunately, though, they tend to trip over their own feet, so the grand schemes usually only half-work." Thank goodness for that.

"You've been to Morrowind?"

"Sure," I nodded. "Once, but it was a six-month stint. I went with my brother Brutus." It was a fun trip. I would have had more fun without my brother breathing down my neck – but once we got out of Balmora, things looked up. "Nice country, but too many mushrooms."

"You don't like mushrooms?" Cyrus asked, snickering.

"I'm _allergic _to mushrooms." I answered with dignity. "A couple of those things and I'd be _dead_. That's me being serious, by the way. Mushrooms are death on a fork."

Cyrus pulled a face.

"Yeah – that's what I said." Smirking, I returned to my own thoughts. Despite the optimism, I'm not exactly thrilled with the apparent situation. We don't know who. We don't know why. We don't even know how. I mean, when's the last time _anyone_ heard of a Gate to Oblivion showing up, much less remaining in place, stable?

--A--

Martin heaved a heavy sigh, shifting the stack of books aside.

"That's where I think we stand," I concluded, after the lengthy answer to Martin's question of 'where do you think we stand'. I don't think he was looking for information, so much as trying to see how much I knew or surmised about the situation. He didn't give away anything, either approval or disapproval, merely listened, up until I finished talking. "So…what now?" I asked, picking at my cuffs. I'd dispensed with the armor for my trip down to Bruma, and simply had not taken time to put it back on. It's _so_ damn cumbersome.

"All practitioners of Daedric magicka are familiar with the almost impenetrable barrier between our world and Oblivion," Martin said slowly.

I didn't know he had any experience with Daedric magicka.

"What the Emperor told you implies the Amulet is the key preserving that barrier. What I saw at Kvatch...everything I know or ever theorized about Daedric magicka says that such stable portals are _impossible_. And yet," he waved, his expression grim.

"Yet those gates to Oblivion existed." I finished, swallowing uncomfortably. "What's it mean?" Nothing good, even I can figure that out without straining my brain.

"It means the old rules no longer apply, or so it seems. Kvatch is only the beginning of what Mehrunes Dagon will do. A very small sample for the horrors to come."

"Don't get all angsty on me," I growled firmly. "What do I have to do?"

Martin looked up, as if he'd forgotten to whom he was speaking, in the middle of a monologue rather than holding a conversation. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sure- what do I need to do?" I responded, fully aware that the question he asked meant 'what do you mean _you have to _do?'

Martin looked uncomfortable.

Setting my jaw, I laid my hands flat on the table. "I thought you took me seriously."

"I do," Martin protested, but not overly emphatically. Just stating a fact.

"Then I suggest – politely – that you get past this thing about not wanting to throw a _girl _into the middle of a _shit-storm_. I'm not being funny right now." I added dryly when Martin's mouth curved into a smile.

"I know you aren't." He assured me. Oddly enough, I believed him – not a lot of people can give that assurance without garnering immediate suspicion and mistrust.

"I'm a Fighters' Guild Agent, and _a Blade. _I volunteered," I poked the table for emphasis. "If you're not going to let me do my job, you may as well send me home." Now, most people would take this opportunity to get their hackles up, get all indignant about the hard line I was presenting.

It surprised me when Martin did neither. "Well, I did try to stop you," he announced heavily.

"The effort is noted and appreciated. Now what?" I asked, a little more kindly. It's true – I do appreciate the chivalry. What I appreciate more is that he didn't argue, press the issue or anything like that. He simply moved on in the conversation, giving me no reason to think this sentiment would resurface. He's got a great gameface—I wonder if he knows how to play poker? So long as it's not _strip_ poker, Jauffre might not even be able to get too rankled about it.

"Now comes the hard part."

"As opposed to the futile part?" We both grinned. Getting me to let someone else do what I see as 'my job' is like trying to change the world by holding your head under water. It doesn't accomplish anything useful. "If the Amulet is truly the key to restoring the barriers between our world and Oblivion, you must waste no time in recovering it."

"Where do I look?" Silence answered the question. I shrugged. "It doesn't matter – the Blades have got a legendary intelligence web – it's only a matter of time. What _is_ all this?" I waved at the books.

"I'm brushing up," Martin answered vaguely.

"So…what do you know about Daedric magicka?" I knew, the instant I said it I knew I'd hit on the absolutely wrong topic, with all the grace of a rampaging ogre. Something in Martin's expression grew solid, like watching a stone wall go up. His mouth thinned slightly. "I…uh…I'll just go. I'm sorry."

Dammit! Graceless! Tactless!

I got to my feet so quickly I banged my knee on the underside of the table, wincing.

The pause I took to wince and swear colorfully under my breath gave Martin opportunity to pat the weathered tabletop. "It's…all right. Sit back down…please," he tacked on. I understood this to mean I was not being ordered to stay, but requested.

Rubbing my knee – I'd slammed it very hard – I settled back on the bench, feeling very embarrassed for having hit on such a sensitive topic. "I am sorry." I swallowed, still feeling awkward.

"Don't be,k" Martin answered quietly, regarding his hands instead of me. "You've always been fighter's Guild, haven't you?" He knows I have, I'm not so tactless I don't recognize a leading statement when I hear one, so I nodded. "Well, I wasn't always a priest. In my youth, I followed a different path." It did not take a genius to see that he was choosing his words very carefully. "I know more than I want to about the seductive power of Daedric magicka. Let's…let's just leave it at that."

"Okay."

Martin looked up, as if startled by the simple acceptance.

"You're looking at the girl who woke up in the Imperial Prison and can't remember _why,_" I said gently. "It doesn't matter. Explains why your sense of humor hasn't shriveled up into something dusty and gross." The wall behind his eyes was already coming back down. "Have you ever been to Elsweyr?" Leading question, leading question!

"No," he shook his head. I know, that he knows, that I know full well he's never been outside of Cyrodiil. I suspect the Blades probably had something to do with that…which makes me wonder how much Jauffre knows about him. Well, if Jauffre opens his mouth, I'll shut it for him.

"Here, walk with me…ow! Not again!" I let off a string of curses that made Martin close his eyes, as though repressing the habit of telling people to watch their language. I'd banged my knee again, and now it _really_ hurt, but I got up, nevertheless. "Come on!"

"What?"

"Come walk with me – I'm getting cagey. I'll tell you about Elsweyr – you'll need to know eventually, and you just so happen to have someone who's _been there_! Seen the culture, had a few laughs. Come on – it's not like I asked you to donate fingers in the kitchen or anything. Never heard of finger sandwiches?" I asked when Martin gave me an incredulous look.

"Arg…" he groaned, flopping his face into his arms. "Personal experience?"

"Tch." I clicked my tongue and when he looked I held up my hands. It's an optical illusion that makes it look like you've managed to detach your thumb, sliding it back and forth . Kids love this one. "What do _you_ think?" I giggled.

With a sigh Martin got to his feet, and we walked out into the brilliant sunlight - some of the last of the day, which cast a golden haze over everything. As we strolled I launched into an in-depth colorful account of the trip to Elsweyr, though this time Martin punctuated the story – usually coinciding with when I had to stop talking to breathe – with inquiries as to particulars, minutia, or details I might have left out.

Let's just say that by the end of the walk – at sundown proper – Martin had the five most useful words in the Ta'agra language under tongue, three of which would get me yelled at by Jauffre. Look who's passing on bad habits _now_.

As they say in Elsweyr: _Arr'naya szeppi qozi_.

'Save it for tomorrow'.

--A--

--Author's notes, appended--

The 'Ta'agra' at the end of the chapter is my own addition, and not supported by canon. Extra special credit for Pheonicia for helping me make it look more authentic. For more linguistic fun-ness - read Lord Lovidicus.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Sixteen

--A--

"So tell me about Glenroy," I announced to Cyrus that evening over a late dinner. Martin was apparently in conference with Jauffre, a meeting I felt best not to interrupt. If he wants to be bothered, he'd be out in the open.

Cyrus shrugged. "Like I said, we're cousins."

"So you came in at the same time?" Cyrus gave me a dark look, making me shift uncomfortably. "Sorry…I just thought…" Tactlessness, anyone?

"…I'd want to talk about it. Why do women always want to talk about things?" Cyrus grumbled.

"Because…we can't read minds?" I offered.

Cyrus blinked.

"Never gotten a real answer to that question, have you?" I grinned. "If you don't want to talk about it, we won't. I'm sorry for asking. He just seemed…like a really great guy. Dedicated."

"He was," Cyrus agreed, then sighed as he poked his dinner with his fork, his mouth twisting in a way which indicated he was resigning himself to something. "Ever been to Hammerfell?"

"Twice. I even speak some of the language," I announced proudly.

"Which part?" Cyrus' mouth twitched towards a grin, indicating he probably could guess how vast my vocabulary was, and what that vocabulary was geared towards.

"The part where you cut out my tongue for insulting your family?" I offered with a toothy grin.

"Right, well, you got the crappy end, then."

"Yeah." I agreed. The words just kind of roll off the tongue – like the 'ml' in 'Mluo'. "So…"

I jumped as the doors of the common room burst open, revealing a very worried-looking Jauffre. I got to my feet. "You need to see this," he announced grimly. "All of you."

I grabbed Silent Partner, and took off after Jauffre.

Outside in the courtyard he led us to join the rest of the group. I struggled through the wall of Blades right up to the ramparts, and felt my heart drop into the soles of my boots as I stared out into the void. "It's…it's a Gate," I articulated needlessly – it was not as if it could be anything else, after all. The burning portal showed clearly in the darkness, partly because of the clarity of the air, partly because of our vantage point.

"Like at Kvatch," Martin's voice drifted forward. Even though I couldn't see him, I could easily imagine the expression on his face, a sort of sickened worry, a cloud of remembered nightmares.

"No," I shook my head, several people turning to look at me. "It's smaller." It _is _smaller – I can tell. Which doesn't mean it's any friendlier, or any less dangerous- it just means the doorway is smaller. Maybe the smaller size takes less energy, or whatever resources it uses to manifest.

"Distraction?" Cyrus offered, elbowing his way forward before murmuring a Yokudan oath.

"Maybe…it's pretty far out, though." Roliand offered, sounding insanely hopeful. "Think we could just…?"

"Leave it?" Caroline asked darkly, in an 'are you insane' sort of voice. She scoffed, shaking her head.

"Well it _is _pretty well out in the middle of nowhere..." one of the others protested.

"You think so?" Martin's voice asked rather sharply. I actually turned around to look at him. With his jaw set like that, and his eyes narrowed, the resemblance to his father became a lot more apparent. I somehow doubt I'm the only one who noticed.

"No one's asked you to go," I announced a little coolly. _I'm_ going – so far as I know, I'm the only one here who's gone into one of those things. It'd be unbelievably cowardly of me not to go, to let some inexperienced Blade go it alone, or even in a group. Still, I can't honestly say I look forward to it.

"Easy." Cyrus intoned, before a fight could break out.

I looked back at Martin, catching his eye before nodding once. _I'll go. _I think he and Jauffre were the only ones to notice.

Martin looked over at Jauffre. "Close the Gate, Jauffre."

"I'll do it." I might as well have shouted the words.

Martin's expression hardened slightly, as if biting back a warning or protest. I'm so glad he's sensible about these things.

Jauffre nodded. "Yes. Take someone with you – preferably several someones."

I nodded, not liking this. "This is where I ask for volunteers," I announced, turning my back on the crowd to stare out at the Gate. Memories swam to the surface of my mind, prowling like half-visible slaughterfish in murky water. Present, menacing and dangerous.

"I'll go." Cyrus volunteered, striding up to stand by my shoulder, facing the Gate, the only spot of light to the south-west. Looking up I saw the sky above the Gate swirling in that oddly red miasma. It doesn't make sense, a Gate like that in the middle of nowhere. Yet, I don't think whoever cast it knows where we are exactly – or they'd have put it on our doorstep.

"It's dangerous." I warned, glancing over at him. It's a clichéd line, but one that escaped my lips anyway. I wished I hadn't said it, but Cyrus shrugged, and proved a better sport than I expected.

"I can look after myself, kid," he answered dryly.

I nodded – good answer. "Get ready, we leave as soon as possible."

"I'll go too," Caroline volunteered, her tone speaking her discomfort.

"No, it's okay, Caro," I shook my head. "A two-man team can close the Gate, no problem," I took a steadying breath. "I don't trust this not to be a _trap_." I doubt it is, but at the same time, I didn't feel much like arguing with the willing. "You'll want to wear the lightest armor you can – it gets pretty hot in there…" I warned Cyrus.

"You've obviously never been to the Alik'r," Cyrus announced in an attempt at humor.

"It's apples versus oranges, Cyrus," I shook my head. "Get your gear – canteen, rations, the works. Time moves funny in there." A bit of an understatement, but true in the essentials. I'm no mage, I can't just conjure up ice to suck on.

Turning, I found Jauffre speaking softly with Martin, who nodded, then glanced at me. I rather suspected Martin had something to say, but was of two minds as to whether to say it or not. Regardless, I didn't get a chance to offer him the opportunity to spit it out.

"I'd like a word with you, Ailirah, before you go," Jauffre announced quietly, once I was within earshot, most of the others pressing near the battlements to better goggle at the Gate.

What've I done _now_? With a sigh I nodded, following him to his office. "What'd I do now?" I asked, a little helplessly once I'd closed the door behind us.

Jauffre looked genuinely surprised. "_Have_ you done anything yet?" he asked.

I gaped at him. That sounds like a trick question, if you ask me, even though I _haven't_ done anything.

"Tell me about these Gates." Jauffre declared levelly.

"Why?" I asked suspiciously.

Jauffre glowered at me. "I'd appreciate less open hostility." He announced coolly, fiddling with something on his desk.

"I'd appreciate a little less grumpiness. Why ask me to join up around here, if you don't approve of me?" I demanded, annoyed by what I perceived as an attempt at supreme nonchalance.

Jauffre looked ready to retort then stopped. "Is that what you think?"

"That's what I _see_." I announced, crossing my arms.

Jauffre waved a hand dismissively. "I don't _dis_approve of you. You need to learn decorum, you need to learn that not all authorities fall into the category of 'family' and you lack _discipline_, but that certainly isn't enough to make me disapprove of you. The fact is, this country is on the brink of war, and I don't always have time to explain every single move I make."

I bit the inside of my lip.

"I'm not here to win your affection, or hold your hand, Ailirah," Jauffre continued firmly. "I am here to do a job, and that job is to stop this…_crisis_…" he waved in mild irritation, "and see that Martin is appointed to his rightful place as _Emperor_. What part of that is 'grumpy'?" His bushy eyebrows knit together.

I continued biting my lip. "I don't like being treated like a kid…like I'm _inept_, or stupid." I announced, a little sullenly. Try as I might, I found it difficult to attack his argument.

"If you were inept or stupid I wouldn't have offered you the opportunity to join," Jauffre declared tiredly. "As far as being treated like a child. Show me a little more maturity, and I will think about treating you like an adult."

Ouch – that's a verbal smack. "Volunteering to close Oblivion Gates doesn't constitute as maturity?" I asked, frowning.

"No, _that_ constitutes _stupidity _in my book," Jauffre answered shaking his head. "However, it's necessary…"

"So better a willing idiot?" I asked. I'm not stupid. Imagine for a minute what would happen if I didn't do it – someone else, someone less prepared would have to. They'd run a better risk of getting killed, just marching into the unknown like that. Still…I suppose even I can't call it a smart idea. Smart would be 'leave the Gate alone', but it works out to another form of stupid, if one only stops to think about it.

"Those are your words, not mine," Jauffre answered serenely. "And speaking of words…"

"You don't like me swearing?"I grunted.

"_I_ honestly don't care – but I would get in the habit of speaking nicely, for the times when you're around people who _do_ mind. Blades need good social skills, Ailirah – skills you have apparently chosen not to develop."

I opened my mouth to argue. I do so have people skills!

Jauffre held up a finger, indicating I should let him finish speaking. "And arguing with your superiors is one habit I do _not_ approve of. It's good you can think for yourself, employ the thought processes towards thinking about whether you have a valid point, or if you're arguing for the sake of arguing."

I closed my mouth, feeling thoroughly chastened.

"Now, is the air clear?" Jauffre asked, sardonically.

"Nn." I grunted.

"Clear, but apparently not a word I've said has sunk _in_," Jauffre shook his head, looking tired and a little harassed.

"I heard you," I announced. Taking a deep breath I determined to show a little of the requested maturity. "Okay. I be nice, you don't grump at me?" I asked.

"Think of it this way, _I'm_ the guildmaster, you're not. You possess valuable skills, but not skills I can't live without. Now, can I trust you to obey orders, when you're given them?" Jauffre asked, massaging the bridge of his nose.

I scowled – I've _never _considered myself having a problem with authority, just with my brothers…ugh. Kind of shoots my own argument full of icicles, doesn't it? "I will obey lawful orders. If I have a problem…I'll let you know." That's fair, right?

"Well, that's progress." Jauffre nodded neutrally. "Now, tell me about these Gates. In detail." He sat down behind his desk, pulling a pen and sheet of paper towards himself so he could take notes.

With a sigh I nodded, then began to report very thoroughly on the Gates, every detail I knew, had overheard, or surmised.

I hate to admit it, but the old guy has a bit of a point. Just a little – it's hard to accept authority figures when you're used to dealing with family. Still, after this talk, I saw less of what I perceived as 'grumpy' and a little more 'stern thoughtfulness'.

--A--

After I got out of Jauffre's office, throat scratchy and feeling exhausted, I strode back to the common room, to find Roliand and Caroline glowering at a stack of playing cards neither seemed to want to touch. In fact, if the deck of cards suddenly caught fire for no apparent reason other than their glares, it wouldn't surprise me. "If you still want to go…" I said a little uncomfortable.

Another thing everyone says which seems to be true: _Fighter's Guild agents have a chip on their shoulder_.

It's rather humiliating, to tell the truth.

"About time," Caroline announced pleasantly.

I winced, resisting the urge to warn her about seriousness…mostly because I'd sound suspiciously like Jauffre when he's talking to me if I did.

Damn, it's just _not_ a good day to be me. Shit.

"Well, We'll leave in the morning." If there's one thing I know, it's not to go into a place like that unrested. Tiredness makes you careless. In Oblivion careless equals dead. Not that I think I'll get much sleep, but some is better than none. Setting off again, taking Caroline and Roliand's agreement to the 'in the morning' plan as encouragement, I went looking for Cyrus to let him know.

Tomorrow's going to be killer.

--A--


	17. Chapter 17

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Still alive, still writing!

--A--

Chapter 17

--A--

We, whom I took to calling the Gate Crew, left with the gray light of dawn. The many looks of worry – which were as bad as votes of no confidence – did nothing for my mood or _my_ confidence in the situation. No one sad a word when I turned up, wearing my trusty chainmail, carrying Silent Partner resolutely. No one said anything as Roliand, Caroline and Cyrus, my volunteers, appeared, looking much more uniformly outfitted, though not but much. The basis of the armors were the same, except Roliand and Caroline still wore most of the heavy armor they apparently prefer.

They're going to bake, but I left them alone, not the least because I warned them at least twice last night, and if they didn't listen they'll have had their own reasons. I simply have to learn to trust other people's thought processes.

Jauffre – looking very stodgy, as it was only a little after six – and Martin (who looked like this was simply the continuation of another day, alert and bracing himself) waited by the main gate out to the Temple. However, past the 'let's do this' attitudes, I could see disquiet. It practically buzzed in the air.

"I'm stopping in Bruma on my way back – does anyone want snacks?" I asked conversationally, once I'd drawn nearer.

You could hear the faces people made, and they almost all sounded like one of two sentiments.

'How can you _joke_ at a time like this?'

Or 'ugh,' immediately followed by the face in the hand routine.

Martin however, nodded approvingly, still concerned, but my apparent lack of concern seemed to fit what he expected to see. "No, nothing," he answered. "Just come back safe, hmm?"

I grinned wickedly. I was about to tease him when I decided against it – there were a lot of people around. This must be one of those times where joking should stay low-key and moderated. Drat. It was at this moment of realization and social discernment when Roliand's hand clamped over my mouth, making me try to squeal, eyes bugging. "Quiet, squirt," the Nord announced cheerfully.

Martin's bottom lip vanished as he bit it, trying not to respond to the comical image Roliand and I must make. Roliand looked down and jostled me. "Grow up a bit," he said and gave me a slight push towards the gates.

"Keep a lid on things, Cyrus," Jauffre said.

I grimaced out of habit, but shrugged. I'd like to meet the individual who _can _keep a lid on things where we're going…no, on second thought, forget that. I _don't _want to meet the person who can keep a lid on things where we're going. I hope he stays nice and far away from us.

"I will, sir," Cyrus nodded grimly.

"All righty – let's go then," I announced cheerful but serious, trotting forward.

"So says the girl with no sense of direction." Caroline snickered, once the gates to the temple closed behind us.

"You heard about that, huh?" Well, as long as they're forewarned, right? Maybe I'll avoid any more of those uncomfortable 'what do you mean you got us lost' moments.

"Lirah, the whole _organization_ knows about your lack of direction," Caroline snickered, resting one hand on her heavy mace, so it wouldn't jostle. Like me, the others carried Akaviri katanas, but I notice, they also carry a second weapon. Cyrus actually carries a matching short sword, and Roliand has a halberd slung across his shoulders. You know – I'll bet Roliand could barrel through a troop of Dremora all by himself.

No kidding – he's a Nord (of the usual sort), I can't wait to see if he handles the Gate well. If he does, look out Dagon – I think your number's just come up. Needless to say, I felt better about going into the Gate with help – though I did feel markedly guilty about asking them to go – than I would have felt going in by myself.

"I'm not wholly without direction," I blew into my left hand, as if warming it and held out my compass, which Caroline and Roliand both immediately investigated, poking my palm or moving my hand around to watch the arrow move beneath my skin.

Cyrus was less impressed, but better conversation.

It was on this walk Roliand found out I was a half-Nord, though he didn't believe me until I told him to tell the Guildmaster, or Einar I wasn't.

See, Einar may be the Guild's best man behind the forge, but most people are opposed to waiting for one of his works of art. So he takes commissions when he's not doing real guild business, and I would not be surprised at how far his weapons spread. Like his philosophy about souls and swords – which according to Cyrus is an Akaviri belief that's permeated into other cultures – Einar has several about smithwork.

Of all my brothers, only Markos inherited skill at the forge, though he's still at a point where he wants to run around kicking in doors and getting into trouble. If I'm honest, I actually feel a little guilty. I've been out from under the many protective wings in my life and _I like it_. Even if I have to learn discipline and all the rest of that stuff, I have an amazing amount of license to _do what I want to do_.

Or _who_, if I were so inclined…but the thought made me blush so violently the others took notice and Caroline asked if I was okay. Can I call myself pathetic yet?

--A--

Facing the Oblivion Gate, the whole group – myself included - took a silent moment to gape at something that shouldn't exist. My stomach started to writhe warningly, as my heart began to bang around in my throat, 'don't go in there'.

Martin's words about these Gates echoed in my ears, making my stomach quiver in further discomfiture, my fingers clenching around Silent Partner's grip. Then again, this might just be nerves, knowing what's waiting on the other side of this Gate, knowing how unpleasant things are about to get. Fairly, though, my nerves have never gotten this bad, before. I'm usually the kind of person you _want _in a stressful situation_. _

…_everything I know or ever theorized about Daedric magicka says that such stable portals are impossible. And yet…_

_Yet those gates to Oblivion existed._

I think it's safe, if a little belated, to say we're in the shit. Fortunately it's only ankle deep….but _only _if you have the idiotic notion or misfortune to jump in headfirst. When I get back to Bruma, I've got to prepare a notice for the Guild about closing these things. It's stupid to only have only two people who know how to do it – not to mention dangerous. What if Dagmar and I both died? How many people would have to follow us before things got worked out again?

On second thought, I don't want an answer to that question. Forget I asked. I've got three people here to train on how, and they can train others, and it'll all go from where. Assuming no one gets killed, before they can pass the information alone – but I mustn't think that way.

Optimism! We need a little bit, right about now.

Looking over at the other faces in the group, I saw my own disquiet represented on a larger front. They, at least, had only verbal descriptions of what they were in for – I know _exact_ what I'm in for. My hands adjusted on Silent Partner's grip, sticking slightly, as this thought skittered across my mind.

"That's..." Cyrus turned pale – quite a feat, given his darker complexion. Shaking his head he didn't complete the sentence. Not that I blame him, that awed trailing-off sums up the situation pretty well.

Caroline nodded, her mouth hanging open. She glanced at me, then looked back at the Gate.

"Are you crazy?" Roliand asked, sounding dry-mouthed.

My stomach continued to writhe as I tightened my grip on Silent Partner. "Not the last time I checked…but I'm beginning to wonder that too," I answered Roliand first. "So, yeah, that's it." I cleared my throat and started forward, feeling sicker the closer I got.

"And you just walk in?" Cyrus asked, hauling his gameface on with an effort. Honestly speaking, I'd be more uncomfortable if they weren't scared. If you're not scared, facing one of these Gates, I don't want you anywhere near me – because if you're not, you obviously don't understand the situation, or what you're walking into.

"Yep." I took hold of his arm with my free hand. "We go in as a team – stick close to me. Roliand's hand descended on my shoulder as Caroline sidled over, to grip Roliand's other arm. "If we get separated when the thing closes…well. I don't want to leave anyone behind." My stomach twisted at the memory of Goneld.

Roliand balked ten feet back from the Gate, or tried to. The constant pressure of the rest of us moving forward, especially Caroline pulling on his arm, didn't let him stop for long. The air fizzled and roared in my ears as we stepped through the Gate. The absence of small Daedra running about worried me.

No one would have just…gone in here, right? Did anyone in Bruma know about the Gate, yet, or had we responded fast enough?

My skin crawled as I passed out of the Gate, onto the Oblivion side, remembering to take a very shallow breathe, so I wouldn't choke on the suddenly hot, acrid air – something forgot to mention, come to think of it, as evidenced by the coughing and hacking going on around me as the others relearned how to breathe in the hostile air.

The air scorched. I grimaced, swallowing hard as the others gagged and coughed. It's surreal, being back here. I felt like a nervous half-angry creature, my hackles rose, though there was no obvious threat.

"You're right – the Alik'r has nothing on this…" Cyrus agreed, as he stopped coughing, now able to look around. "What do we have to do?"

"See the big tower?" I asked, pointing with Silent Partner. It wasn't hard to find – just as before, it loomed over the entire island.

"We've got to climb all the way up there?" Caroline's voice quavered slightly then died.

"Yep." Not the most appealing plan, but necessary. "It's all right – some of these places have tunnels the Dremora use, so they don't have to climb the terrain. Come on – we need to move fast, or the Daedra will figure out we're here. And they _eat_ people."

"Ugh…" Cyrus groaned, Roliand nodded, apparently too shocked at what he saw to say anything. Or he was afraid of retching his breakfast up – I was surprised mine was staying where it belonged so obediently. Now that I've been here a few minutes, I don't feel so bad.

Acclimation, or whatever the word is. It's still too damn hot.

"Yeah, that sums it up. Keep your heads on – we'll be okay." The words were not as hollow as they might have sounded under different circumstances. The simple fact that I've done this once before makes _me _feel confident. Plus, I have Silent Partner again – this is a whole new game.

The scream rent the air, a familiar scream. It's not…it can't be…

Charging forward, I readied Silent Partner. Darting out from behind the cover supplied by one of the massive chunks of broken stone I gave a shout. The Daedra all turned in time to see the head and shoulders of one of their own part company.

Right-Wind was kneeling on the ground, Bumph face down behind him. What they were doing here was obvious. I never expected to see them, though – I would have thought Bruma would hunker down, leave the Gate alone…

But they don't know about Cloud Ruler Temple…about _us_…so of course, if they knew about the Gate…and Bruma's up on that hill…_dammit_.

Bringing Silent Partner back around it slid into the chink between chin and neck of a second Dremora, protruding from the back of his neck for a moment before I whipped the weapon free, half-severing his head in a spray of blood like rain that sizzled on the hot stones. The body hit the ground and I glowered at the Daedra, feeling a surge of anger burning away any remaining nausea in my stomach. "Who's next?" The words might not make sense, but the tone is unmistakable.

Cyrus jumped into the fray as I blocked an attack from another Dremora (a particularly _ugly_ one, come to that), throwing him off balance and whipping the far end of Silent Partner around, skipping it off the breastplate of the Dremora coming up behind me, leaving a glittering gouge. I spun around quickly, but the Dremora blocked my attack with a grin.

Will you still be grinning when I've kicked your ass and moved on? I skipped his weapon along Silent Partner's length, forcing him onto the offensive.

Right-Wind struggled to his feet, tugging Bumph's mace free from her hands. I could tell he was hurt, not good for a fight, but the Argonian stoically dug in his heels, protecting his downed comrade. "Stay down!" Caroline barked as she and Roliand closed between the downed fighters and several of the clannfear who, hissing and spitting, had moved towards the wounded.

Roliand surged forward with a shout – a shout containing magic ka, it cracked through the air like a whip, leaving his katana glittering with power. _Thu'um_. Sort of.

Silent Partner confused the Dremora – they never knew whether to watch the blade nearest to them, or the one nearest to me. With my sword balanced the way it is, I can easily deflect an attack, send the attacker off balance, then attack again while taking full advantage of their break in stance and focus.

The sonorous clank of one Dremora tripping into another before Right-Wind, amidst Caroline's shouts, leaped forward, dealing crushing deathblows to heads attracted the attentions of smaller Daedra who had managed to get past Roliand – scamps, mostly.

I shouted wordlessly, focusing as I jabbed with Silent Partner, the weapon punching thorough the plate of the Dremora I was fighting. He looked down, shocked at the blade sticking into his middle before I ripped it free, slicing off his head. Unlike many of his comrades, he'd not worn a helmet, and paid for it.

I screamed as a clannfear jumped at me, coming in from my blindside, so I saw it only too late. Despite the fact I managed to slash at it with Silent Partner I hit the hard-baked ground, the body landing on top of me, pinning me and my weapon. A second clannfear clambered up to me, over the first, it's beaked mouth inches from my face.

Oh…it's gonna gouge out my eyes!

With a bellow like a wounded bull, Roliand slammed into the clannfear, cracking it upside the head with his halberd. He reached down with his free hand to grab the dead animal by the neck and hoisted it effortlessly, so I could clamber to my feet. "Down!" I barked the moment I had my footing again, Roliand dropping like a stone, not questioning the order.

Blocking the mace the Dremora and I struggled, one of those unfortunate contests of strength until the end of an Akaviri katana exploded from his middle.

Cyrus had come up from behind as I yelled and Roliand ducked. He now grabbed the Dremora by the shoulder and threw him to the side, sliding him off the sword before delivering an extra killing blow, just to make sure. "You okay?" he demanded sharply as Roliand climbed to his feet.

"Big ugly suckers, aren't they?" Roliand asked gruffly.

Leaning Silent Partner on my shoulder, I nodded. "Thanks Rols," I rasped, my throat feeling scratchy.

He nodded, prodding a dead Dremora with his foot, all of us a little disconnected from reality, in the wake of the fight's sudden end.

My torso ached with dull pain, but it didn't feel as though anything was broken. I limped forward, favoring one side, then the other, crashing to my knees by Bumph and Caroline, who was already trying to heal the Orc, or at least bring her around. Rolling Bumph over she moaned feebly. "She's alive," I nearly choked on my relief. "Bumph. Hey, wake up," I produced my canteen and trickled some of the contents onto her parched, cracked lips.

Her eyelids fluttered, but she didn't come around. "What happened?" I asked as Right-Wind, leaning heavily on Cyrus knelt across from me, looking down at Bumph. I handed him the canteen and he took a grateful swig.

"We got here just before you did, apparently. Got in over our heads, more like it," Right-Wind answered hoarsely, adrenaline, fear, and the sudden absence of pressure making his temper short. I hadn't noticed it before, since Argonians don't bleed like humans do, but above his left eye was an ugly gash. The eye itself was swollen shut and I hoped fervently it wasn't damaged. "The Gate was spotted in the wee hours of the morning. We're Fighter's Gild, it's what we do, right?" he asked, shaking his head.

I suppose the populace _would_ think that way.

"The legion apparently felt it was far enough from the city not to worry, but the citizenry…" Right-Wind shrugged then sipped again form my canteen before realizing he'd almost emptied it, before handing it back to me. I brought more than one, as per my own recommendation, so I carefully administered the rest to Bumph as I nodded in understanding.

"So we got here, had a poke around, then got ambushed. Then you arrived, just after Bumph went down. Somewhere, someone is looking out for us, I tell you, Lirha."

I didn't miss the subtle clue to Right-Wind's real condition. 'Lir-ha' is the Argonian pronunciation of my nickname. Right-Wind's accent only comes out when he's tired, not paying attention to his language – which is why his words are getting more sibilant and raspy, and why a couple syllables change places when he talks. I'll bet he's hurt worse than that eye…though that's the most gruesome injury visible, hands down.

Getting to my feet, fastening my canteen back onto my belt I turned to Roliand and Caroline, who'd begun to administer aid to Right-Wind. "Rols, Caro. Take Bumph and Right-Wind back to Bruma." I declared levelly.

"What…no!" Cyrus protested, looking appalled.

Caroline apparently didn't hear, but Roliand looked uncomfortable. I think he'll never set foot back into a Gate, unless the world's ending, and I don't blame him, or think any less of him for it. He tried – and in this case, it's more than most people would do.

"_Look _at him, Cyrus!" I shouted forcefully, pointing at Right-Wind, who glared at us one-eyed as if to say 'I'm fine, quit your fussing'. I ignored the bravado. "He's in no condition to do it himself, Bumph certainly isn't, and in case you hadn't noticed Bumph's no pixie! It'll take two people to move her, unless you have enough magicka as well as the necessary restoration spells to get her back on her feet!"

Caroline paused her healing, the effort it took to get Bumph and Right-Wind into travel-worthiness showing. "She needs the clergy, Cyrus. I can't do anything more for her, and we shouldn't wait." So that's why Caro's here – in case someone gets hurt. I've no doubt she's a good fighter, don't get me wrong…but I'll miss having a healer on the team.

"You and I can do this – we'll travel faster, for one thing, and I _know _I can get up there – I've done it before. I'm not asking _you _to go as well, and I'm not telling you to let me do this alone." I tried to calm my unexpected flare of temper. The only reason I'm trying not to argue, is because Jauffre effectively put Cyrus in charge, with me as his situational advisor.

How's _that_ for discipline and maturity

Cyrus gritted his teeth, trying to find a way to argue with my logic. The trouble is, he knows I'm right – logistically he doesn't have much of a choice.

"Cyrus, please," I implored, taking a gentler track. "They can't get out of here, and they can't come with us," Bumph and Right-wind, obviously. "_Please_."

Cyrus bit his lip, looking around the hostile Deadlands, at Caro who nodded, now standing shakily, to Roliand who stared out over the landscape, but didn't seem to see any of it. Then Cyrus sighed, nodding defeated.

I smiled, some of the tension flowing out of my stance. I'd braced myself for a fight, which was no longer forthcoming "Thank you."

"Don't. You know they'll chew my ass back at headquarters for this?" He asked dryly, giving me a baleful look.

"Don't worry, I'll bail you out." I assured him. "The boss doesn't have a sense of humor, but he's not stupid. Better to save lives than lose them, right? And it's not like I'm carrying on alone, so…you stopped me from doing anything stupid. The lid's still on," I announced in my best imitation of cheerfulness.

Still unconvinced, Cyrus watched as Roliand and Caroline managed to get Bumph off the ground, supporting the Orc between them. "Remember – once you're back on Nirn, don't hang around the Gate. I can't promise no more Daedra are going to show up." I warned.

"Get yourselves back to Bruma, we'll meet you back at headquarters – let the boss know what's happened," Cyrus announced, stepping back into his capacity as team lead.

"Be careful, Ailirah," Right-Wind warned unnecessarily, tapping the heel of his hand against his forehead.

I returned the gesture, winking as I did so. "Walk in the park." Yeah – this was bravado, but it reassured those who were still conscious. I watched them moving back towards the Gate, towards safety, before turning to continue forward, pausing only long enough to check the bodies of the dead for anything remotely useful – Cyrus shook his head, but I ignored the nonverbal remark.

Not much, unless you like heavy weapons and armor, neither of which I can use effectively.

As I navigated us towards the Tower, a nasty feeling settled in my stomach, completely independent of my worries for Bumph and Right-Wind, as well as independent of my worry for myself. There's no reason to assume but…if I wanted something to distract my enemies, this would definitely find itself near the top of the list. They can't very well leave a Gate like this open, who knows what could come spewing or swarming out of it in the dead of night? But if they go in, they risk weakening themselves, losing people to the hostile environs, to the denizens of the Deadlands.

Tzun Soo once said (according to his book, anyway) that every unit of the enemy's supplies - be they food, water, weapons, cash, whatever – is equal to twenty units of the same to you. A very wise man, Master Soo.

Still, despite the overabundance of stuff too heavy for me to carry, let alone use, I did find a few trinkets. I couldn't discern he use for all of them, but figured worst coming to worst, I could take them back to Cloud Ruler Temple and ask Martin to divine whatever they were supposed to do. When you're next to a Mundane…

Hm. Maybe I should ask Martin if he could teach me a little bit about using magicka, since I seem to have a small amount at my disposal. Closing my left hand into a fist, I breathed into it, feeling the spell spicy on my lips. The compass flared in my hand, a reassuring warmth. I didn't need it, couldn't use it here – the arrow in the compass kept spinning, unable to orient itself – but the warmth was reassuring, even if it made me feel the heat here so much more.

I could not entirely shake the feeling something terrible might happen at Cloud Ruler Temple. Then again, Martin's not exactly helpless, and the Blades definitely aren't…to tell the unvarnished truth, I'd rather not have this damn gate leering at my back. I wouldn't be able to sleep, knowing it was open, even if I was safe in Cloud Ruler Temple - if any place can be called 'safe' anymore. I doubt Martin would be able to sleep with it open either – he's probably got worse nightmares about these things than I do.

--A--

--Author's notes appended --

Tzun Soo – She's actually referencing Sun Tzu's Art of War (as edited by James Clavell), chapter two. It's a good book to read, giving insight into strategies that are applicable for more than conducting a war. It's also very _short_ – so 'Lirah's attention span didn't switch off halfway through.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

It also occurs to me I may have neglected to mention my best and favorite resource: the Oblivion Wiki, which enables those of us without access to all the games to know what's going on. So, thanks, kudos, and much much credit! You can find them here: /wiki/Oblivion:Oblivion

--A--

Chapter Eighteen

--A--

"This is it!" I shouted unnecessarily, feeling Cyrus' grip closed over my elbow as I tripped against the plinth, above which the sigil stone hovered so innocuously.

"Just do it!"

The pounding of heavy boots making their way towards us rang in my ears and throughout the Tower's top level.

My hand closed over the sigil stone, the world collapsed, and I landed face down on the ground, grass sticking to my cheek. I could hear Cyrus groaning softly from where he lay, some way to my left, but I found myself unable to worry about him. I'm trembling, it's cold…it's far too cold…shivering I squinted in the bright sunlight. Why's it so bright out here? Well, I suppose Oblivion's a little…not necessarily 'darker', but at the same time…

Another wracking bout of tremors ran through me, sweat dripping along my skin, making me feel clammy all over. "Are you okay?" I rasped, moving to bury my head in my arms. I could feel the sigil stone, smooth as a marble contrary to its appearance, clenched in my hand.

"Fine…are you okay?" Concern colored Cyrus voice. I heard him get up a moment before one hand came to rest hesitantly on my shoulder, before jerking back. "_Hot_ shit!"

No kidding. I told him the rings would be hot. "Fine. Just a little shaky." I announced.

To prove this point, I forced myself to roll onto my side, grimacing in pain as I managed to get to my feet, staggering slightly. At some point during our jaunt into Oblivion, I'd gotten the sarcastic pounded out of me by a Dremora who thought I'd look good on the wall…_if_ he could get me to stick. I'm lucky he didn't get the idea to _hang_ me on the wall. Then again, I get the feeling some of these Dremora – like some people – aren't really bright.

Lucky me.

The air stung my sinuses. Despite the fact Cyrus continued to stare at me, making me wonder how bruised my face actually is (it hurts pretty badly) slowly, very slowly, the sense of something 'wrong' with my current environment slipped away. I'll bet it's just from being in Oblivion so long – several hours, if the sun's any indication. "Let's go."

"Bruma?" Cyrus asked gently.

I nodded. "I want to make sure Bumph and Breezy are okay…" I looked over at Cyrus, feeling a little vulnerable and not at all confident. Man – these trips into Oblivion just _wear you _out. Cyrus looked tired, his face shadowed and a little haggard. "It'll wear off," I announced, batting his arm with my wrist, so as not to touch his still-cooling armor. "It always does."

"Oh, good…" Cyrus nodded, then rubbed at his eyes. "Damn grit…we can get looked at while we're there. I don't wanna limp all the way up there."

"Me neither." The walk from Bruma to Cloud Ruler Temple is long enough, but imagining doing it in my condition makes me want to sit down and refuse to move. Maybe if I take a nap, if I can get to sleep...but that wouldn't do. As I continued nodding in agreement, picking up my feet, I reactivated the compass and started off, knowing the approximate heading I needed.

The walk to Bruma took longer than the walk to the Gate. It also remained more silent, for neither Cyrus nor I were feeling particularly chatty. Part of this was pain, part of it was shock – it _is_ Cyrus' first Gate – part of it was me worrying about a whole host of things, to the point my headache amplified.

Dusk was settling like a blanket shook out over a bed by the time I limped into the guildhall, only to find it very empty, with several notes for me lying in plain view – one from Markos, which is undoubtedly demands for me to come home. Tucking them into my belt, unable to reach any of my pockets, I checked the Guildhall over, just in case.

"No one?" Cyrus asked, sitting on a bench in the entryway, looking tired.

"No, they must still be at the Chapel…" I bit my lip. "Hang on, I need to address a note," I sighed, then scribbled out a note saying – as diplomatically as I could manage with a headache about to know my eyes out of their sockets – that I was under contract right now, and if he didn't quit _hassling_ me, I was going to _kick his ass_, brother or not. "Okay…Chapel…"

It was only the legendary toughness of Blades and Fighters' Guilders which kept us from leaning on each other as we shuffled towards the Chapel.

And no one yet noticed the _damned Gate was closed_!

--A--

"Excuse me?" I hailed the first chapel attendant I could find. "I'm Ailirah, Fighter's Guild – have any of my…"

"Yes, they're in the infirmary, just over there." He pointed, to the end of the ward, looking harassed.

I inclined my head, following the direction pointed out, bumbling along until I finally arrived in a large room with windows along one wall, in which Bumph and Right-Wind both lay sleeping.

"Can I help you, child?" A wizened woman asked, hobbling over, leaning heavily on her staff.

"I'm trying to check on a couple of my friends – the Orc and the Argonian. Are they all right?" I asked softly, keeping my voice down lest I wake either of the injured.

"Oh, they'll be fine," she assured me. "Really – we're releasing the Argonian in a few days. The Orc, though…she'll need a bit longer. Took a very nasty hit to the head."

"But she'll be all right?" I pressed.

"Yes, yes," the old lady soothed. "You two however…"

"Yeah, It's been a long day," Cyrus covered for me as I fell silent with relief.

"Ailirah, Cyrus!" Caroline came ambling up the ward. "You look like shit!" She announced.

"Keep your voice down, dear, please. And…"

"I know, I know," Caroline nodded, rubbing her forehead with the hand. "Watch my language – sorry, Sister. You two look like…well…_crap_. If you really want to know." Caroline corrected herself, eyeing the sister askance as if waiting to hear 'find another word'.

I grinned – I knew I wasn't the only one in the tactless boat.

"Thanks Caro," Cyrus said dryly.

"Meanwhile, I'm checking myself in," I announced softly. "I _think_ I've got cracked ribs…" the sister's eyes went round as I listed off what I thought was wrong – I'm probably pretty accurate. My ribs don't feel _broken_, but there's _definitely_ something not right in that area of my body.

"You too?" She demanded once Cyrus admitted he thought he'd done something to his left wrist and elbow – among other things. "You two sound like you've been through a…into…" her expression got rounder, if that were possible, and a little color leeched out of her face.

"Into Oblivion, yeah. The Gate's closed," I finished for her, noticing how she hedged around the issue.

My own mother wouldn't have looked half so mortified.

--A--

"So where's Rols?" I asked, sitting beside Cyrus on his bed some hours later, wearing the white robes of the ward's inmates. I rather suspect I know where he is – if he hasn't drowned himself in a bottle of the strongest whiskey he can find, he's coming apart at the seams somewhere, and he's going to get himself hurt.

Despite the fact Cyrus and I were both healed – still achy, but nothing broken anymore - the healers wanted to keep us overnight – just to make sure we were fine, that there weren't any other effects. I suppose it's a good idea, but it's _soooo_ damn _boooring_. Even with Caroline to keep us company, and I suspect she'll head back to Cloud Ruler Temple before long.

Not that Jauffre and Martin won't know the Gate's closed – I mean, they can see it, and I suspect both will have kept a careful eye on it. I would have, but I'm down here.

"He went back to headquarters," Caroline cast a suspicious look to the rack of curtains on three sides of us, affording us a small amount of privacy. My bed was a similar setup, though obviously I'm here where the people are. "He's…he's a little shaken up." She admitted quietly, looking worried.

"I'll talk to him," Cyrus volunteered.

"Maybe I should – been through two, remember?" I asked quietly.

I don't blame him – he's probably pretty upset. Embarrassed at leaving Cyrus and I to close the Gate. Angry that he didn't go himself. Afraid of the whole scenario, because frankly, I saw the fracture lines leading to a meltdown all over him. He did really well in the first fight…it would have been a subsequent fight where we'd lost him, or he'd lose himself – part of the reason I wanted to get him out of there, as well as the reasons I gave. As far as I'm concerned, he acted with wisdom and courage. However, people in those situations tend not to see it that way. They see 'cowardly and stupid'.

I got to my feet and slipped out through the curtains to go see Right-Wind who was – to my surprise – awake.

"Lirha?" he rasped, sounding thoroughly exhausted.

"Heya Breezy," I responded gently, before walking over, perching on the edge of his bed. I seriously hope those bandages over his eye don't hide the loss of it. "How're you feeling?" I could deduce how he felt, but I'd much rather hear it from him.

"Better, thanks," he looked over to Bumph's bed. She still lay still. If she weren't breathing slowly and regularly, she'd have looked dead. "Any word?"

I shook my head. "Not yet – but she's alive, that's something," I encouraged.

"Yes, that's something," Right-Wind nodded. "How about you – you don't looks so good."

"Yeah, that's what people keep telling me. The riddle is: why don't I look good?" I asked.

Right-Wind studied my face, and then shrugged. "I don't know – you just…_don't_."

"That's what everyone else says too – I look like crap, but they can't tell me why. I suppose it's lack of sleep and a severe deprivation of dungeons to dive." I sighed. "I miss the old days, when skeletons were normal and things were…weren't so weird." I finished, changing the end of the sentence. Right-Wind doesn't know I work for the Blades now, I think I'd better keep that quiet, or my brothers are going to panic, stampede, and get themselves hurt.

'Hurt' because _I_ will be the one swinging punches.

"You sound like a little old lady," Right Wind's slightly clawed hand found mine, wrapping around it, his palm cool and rough against my knuckles. "Thanks Lirha."

"Don't mention it." I nodded. We sat there in silence until Right-Wind drifted off to sleep.

Caroline left, Cyrus dozed off, but I remained awake, uneasy, finally taking to pacing up and down the ward. There's simply too much on my mind right now.

--A--

Tired and cranky, the next morning I dragged Cyrus to the Fighter's Guild so I could pick up any mail - there were two letters from home, necessitating a spray of curses which made Cyrus chuckle, mostly because they were all Yokudan, some of my best.

"A vocabulary like that, you could have been a dockrat," he announced pleasantly, holding the bag of Right-Wind's things for me as I scribbled another polite but vague response.

"Where do you think I learned it all?" I asked dryly, thoroughly preoccupied, looking at the letter holding my concern.

Julius himself had written it - the other was from Bellona and purely social. This puts me in a sticky spot. _Normally_, this is where I'd go running home to scream that I had other things to do – resulting in a huge family altercation, and possibly necessitating the city watch to come tell us to keep it down.

However, I began to think like a Blade, or so I feel, in that I asked myself: would I scream at _Jauffre_ like that? No – I don't exactly like him, but liking someone's not requisite for working with them. It just makes things easier, and apparently the Blades don't do anything the easy way.

Jauffre…well, if anyone can tell someone anything about my being a Blade, it's Jauffre.

So I'll ask him to write a message home, to get the guys off my back, before things get complicated. The idea of choosing between the Blades and the Fighters' Guild is highly unpleasant. I don't want to do it.

Though if Bellona's sons, my _beloved_ brothers, don't ease upI may have to consider it.

Would they take the threat seriously, I wonder?

No – but they'll take this whole 'I'm not coming home right now' as my biggest attempt to run away in the history of such doings, and they may react accordingly.

"Can't you just leave the Guild, if they make life so tough for you?" Cyrus asked gently.

"I like the Guild," I answered surprisingly quietly. Even _I_ was surprised how soft the answer came out, both in terms of tone and the sentiment voiced. "I really do. However, I may have to consider that option." I bit my lip. Leaving the Guild, for me, is like jumping off a passenger ship to _swim _the rest of the way to my destination. An unwelcome prospect – I can swim, but not for miles and miles at a time. "Come on – let's get Breezy's stuff to him. Jauffre's probably bitten his nails to the quick waiting for us to get back and make our report."

Cyrus nodded, snickering in agreement.

The image of Jauffre nibbling his fingernails, like I do, is hilarious to the extreme and entirely improbable.

I wonder how Martin's holding up. He's not used to sending people out into the field, possibly to die. I'll bet that's not easy for him, being a priest and not a bad sort in the first place.

--A--


	19. Chapter 19

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Nineteen

--A--

Arriving at Cloud Ruler Temple, shortly after nine, I proceeded immediately to Jauffre's office, tapping politely on the wooden doorframe. During my first week, I received many repeated warnings not to knock on the sliding doors themselves, unless I wanted to put my fist through one. Not quite paper, but very thin wooden panels, which a careless knuckle would smash to splinters. I must remember never to bang on someone's door when my mood's sour – I'm liable to put a fist through it and _that_ is not the impression I usually want to give.

"Come in," Jauffre called, sounding vaguely tired. Definitely not a morning person.

Sliding the door open, Jauffre's eyes bugged slightly when he saw me, as if realizing something he had not previously. "Ah…you're back. Later than we expected, but Roliand and Caroline both gave us preliminary briefings." He regained his composure. His tone remained neutral.

I suspect he'd probably have preferred us to come straight back to the Temple to give our briefing, but between injured friends and injured selves, he didn't begrudge us the time, even if it still wasn't _quite_ what he wanted. I also suspect Cyrus has already reported in. I took time to get cleaned up so I didn't look so woebegone – I'm getting to be pretty hard on clothes these days.

"I'm not _really _late," I tested the waters, "I showed up _exactly_ when I wanted to. Namely, I showed up _safely_." Grinning I walked forward, producing a letter, the very same letter I found waiting for me at the guildhall, from Julius.

"Ailirah."

"Morning Mart…whoa, you look like shit." I announced succinctly, blinking owlishly at him.

"Thank you." Martin chuckled over Jauffre's admonishing 'Ailirah', which Martin waved off.

"I'm not joking, you look like _you _just got out of an Oblivion Gate – what, did you not sleep while I was gone?" I glanced at Jauffre, then back to Martin who looked mildly guilty. It _looks_ like he'd stayed awake from the time I'd left until now. I smiled, rather than grimace. "That's very sweet if you - but I wouldn't make a habit of it."

"So says the one who goes looking for trouble." Martin remarked lightly.

"So says the one who needs to _avoid_ trouble." I shot back, grinning. "There's only one of you. Speaking of which," I added, more thoughtful than seriously, "you've gotta learn to take care of yourself or I'll start worrying – do you know what that'll do to my skin?" I teased, winking to show I was still joking, as I tapped a finger against my cheek. He really ought to learn the sword – we _are_ about to head into a war, here. I hope Jauffre's got a handle on that - he's not stupid.

Martin shrugged, looking ready to retort – he's in a _really_ good mood this morning, it's nice to see someone is – when Jauffre put a stop to the playful banter. I wanted to stick my tongue out at Jauffre and pull a face at him if only to amuse the rest of us – Martin and myself.

"Are you ready to give your briefing?" Jauffre asked flatly.

"Yes, but I've actually got another problem," I announced briskly.

Both Martin and Jauffre looked like I had clobbered them. "Problem?" Jauffre blinked.

"Yes, the Guildmaster in Leyawiin is…insisting on my immediate return to undertake my usual duties," I handed Jauffre the note. "I've already sent him a letter indicating I'm here on business – I didn't say what, as I obviously can't – but I don't think it's going to satisfy him for very long." The dreadful choice between my two jobs – the one I do for duty, and the one I love – is looming. It's also making me feel vaguely queasy.

"You're needed here. It isn't safe..." Jauffre began.

Safe my ass – who just walked in and out of a _second_ Oblivion Gate? Of course it's not 'safe', though I didn't argue the semantics with him – weird that my temper should spike like that, though, this early in what's looking like a lovely day. "I understand, Grandmaster. I didn't ask to be sent to Leyawiin, or even ask for time away to go." I began politely, "but my guild is beginning to get a little annoyed with me. They want to know where I am, and how long it's going to...how did it go in the last note? 'Get my ass back in the game'?" I was also told, in that first letter, not to hide behind Uncle Modryn again. Apparently the old mer gave my brothers quite a bit of grief, probably enjoying it thoroughly.

I'll have to get him something nice for his birthday for this.

"I see…" Jauffre frowned. "You may need to make a choice about where…"

To my surprise Martin intervened on my behalf, apparently seeing the pained look on my face. I didn't hear exactly what Martin told Jauffre, but I do know it always pays to have contacts in the guild.

"I understand, Grandmaster," I answered levelly. "I hope I don't have to make that choice." I suppose I could quit and reapply for induction, but between the crap I'd take for leaving in the first place, the people who will feel free to haze me as a repeat rookie, and half a dozen other things, is it _really_ worth the hassle I'd get?

Might be worth it just to quit and stick with the Blades…I just can't see what need they'd have for me, once all this is over.

"I will have a message dispatched to Guildmaster Einarson," Jauffre announced. "I'll take your report now."

I nodded. "Thank you, Grandmaster." Taking a deep breath I launched into a narrative about the Gate, what we'd encountered, the whole story, omitting only a few details – like when I screamed in that Dremora's face while he tried to stick me to the wall.

--A--

Once Jauffre agreed to step in, to see if he couldn't convince Julius – the most reasonable of the four - my work was legal, important and ethical, I allowed the matter to settle.

What wasn't settled was my feeling the need to talk to Roliand. It's became very obvious – even more so when Caroline came to find me – he's not taking things well. "I'll talk to him," I assured her, patting her shoulder. "I've just gotta find him."

It's getting harder to find people –another half-dozen Blades arrived while Cyrus and I were gone, necessitating the sleeping arrangements to change. Apparently, we only use the futons when the Temple complex is running on its usual skeleton crew. When it's full to capacity, we use the dormitories on the sub-levels.

Yeah – I was surprised, I didn't quite realize we were on the top floors. I thought it was just a really small organization. How's _that_ for naiveté?

I found Roliand hunkered down in one of the as-yet unused barracks. The room bore the unmistakable signs of not seeing much use, having a damp and slightly gloomy aura. "Heya Rols," I announced sedately, sliding the door the rest of the way open.

"'Lirah," Roliand grunted. I could see he was hoping if he pretended things were fine, I'd just go away.

"I'll be blunt. You're not a coward. You're not even a wuss." I announced firmly, standing before Roliand, feet planted, a stern 'I've been here before' sort of expression hung across my face like a banner. "It's not nothing to do with courage, Rols."

Roliand swallowed stubbornly.

"It's _not_. The…"

"Look," Roliand got to his feet, scowling at me. "I don't need this from you."

"Then quit sulking," I answered firmly.

"It's easy for you to say that!" Roliand shouted.

I shouted back, more so he'd hear me than any other reason. "The hell it is!" I barked. "You think I missed the telltale signs in there, Rols? If I'd taken you the whole way, you'd have _cracked_! Not everyone can just waltz into a place like that, and come out all right!" By now I was roaring.

Roliand stepped back, then took breath to yell again. "I'm…"

"What? Bigger than me? Stronger? Been a Blade longer? Do you think that kind of environment _cares_?" I snarled, feeling pressure building behind my eyes. "It doesn't! You made the right choice, you got the hell out when I told you and didn't argue with me about it. You got my friends out, and they're both going to _live_! So what, precisely, is eating at you?" I was breathing hard by now, disjointed memory of a similar situation, one where I stood in Roliand's shoes, rattling around in my head.

Roliand clenched and unclenched his teeth for a moment. I could see the light starting to seep back into his eyes. If there's one thing I know about Roliand's sort of personality – which isn't so different from Brutus' and Roge's – it's that they can't bear to be thought weak, or a coward. I don't blame them, which is why I'm kicking his ass right now. "I didn't…I _couldn't_…" Roliand shook his head at the memories.

I shook my head, letting my hackles settle with a weary sigh. "It's not bravery, Rols – walking into a place like that. It's not brave, it's not smart, it isn't even really courage. Stupidity, yeah. Lunacy? Sure. Necessary? Yes. But it's not bravery, it's not even courage – don't get that confused. Bravery is knowing when to turn back, when to obey orders, even if you don't like them. Especially when you don't like them." My voice died into thoughtful silence as I looked away from Roliand, remembering not to lean on the door as I did so.

"I don't think any less of you, if that helps. No one does. I came down here to give you a good kick, but I also wanted to thank you. For helping Caro get Bumph and Right-Wind out of there, and to the chapel. The healers are pretty confident they'll both be all right. So…thanks for that."

"You've been here before, have you?" Roliand asked relatively quietly after a few long moments.

"Have a seat," I settled on the mats, hunching a little. My posture's really bad, I know, but I've never tried to fix it. "Ever been to Elsweyr?" I asked with a sigh.

Roliand – to my surprise – nodded.

"So've I. I really liked it down there, understand that," I held up a hand. "My father, Einar and I, were requested to come into Elsweyr to backup a Mage's Guild research team. They wanted Cyrodiilic fighters. Leyawiin was just a hop, skip and a jump away from the dig site. The dig was between Rimmen and Orcrest – we didn't know what it was or what it was about – it was a job, a chance to travel. We hired a guide, a Khajiit, of course, then set off. I was happy just riding around on a Senche, wearing the nifty head-wrap. Nordic skin, you know – burns like crazy down there."

Roliand nodded, rubbing his jaw. I suspect he's seen his share of sunburns.

"I wasn't very experienced within the Guild when this happened…"

"Where are you now?" Roliand interrupted.

"I'm a Defender," I answered calmly. "Probably should be higher, but since my brother's the Guildmaster, I've got to watch my step. People stopped claiming favoritism openly after they started losing teeth to my fists." It was really bad, especially once I started to rise through the ranks. Three ranks in twenty months – I was nineteen when I got my promotion to Swordsman.

People thought I was progressing too fast, it gave Julius a lot of trouble. Didn't matter that I did my jobs, and did them to the letter. I didn't matter that I'm simply _that good_. It's hard – I'm good, but I'm not allowed to be recognized as good. Not officially anyway – and the complaints don't even come from Leyawiin.

I was the little sister, therefore it_ must_ bepreferential treatment. I had to bite, fight and claw my way forward after that. A lot of nights, I used to think no other guild member worked so hard to advance and be recognized – even then it didn't do any good. It's still like that, come to think of it.

I'm still _The Little Sister_. It hurts more than I let on, like a sore tooth, a dull throbbing ache to know I'll never be recognized for my achievements, my skills will never be credited as mine. I don't blame Julius…I can't. It's not his fault…but sometimes I wish…

I wish…

…doesn't matter. If wishes were horses, there'd be less hoofing it in my line of work. Stay positive. It's worked so far.

Roliand nodded wordlessly, so I continued.

"We got to the site, and everything looked okay. Dad and I just hung about, playing cards most of the time – our job was to be there for show, and in case anything…bad…happened. We expected raiders or something, and us being from Cyrodiil was just a matter of familiarity. There were half a dozen locals around too, you know – keeping the camp comfy for the mages. Mages don't like to rough it. This…this part doesn't go any further than here, okay? It's…I had fun on the trip…It was the mission I didn't like so much." I explained.

Roliand nodded. "Okay."

"Einar started to get antsy after a couple days – and some more mages showed up. I didn't think anything of it – I was a Mundane back then. Mages' matters were _their business_, and none of mine. One night, just before I was ready to turn in, Einar came in, told me something wasn't right, and told me to change tents with him. It was dark, so no one noticed. He also told me, to keep my axes close at hand. This was before I got Silent Partner," I explained before Roliand could ask.

I've only had Silent Partner for six years.

"Well, you have to be pretty dumb not to realize something's up. So I switched tents like Einar told me to, kept my axes close at hand, fully dressed, the whole bit. Around midnight I heard noise outside, then a scream – someone apparently stumbled over Einar where he wasn't supposed to be – just before someone came tripping into my tent.

"I didn't ask any questions, I just hacked in. The guy had sword, he was in my tent – you can imagine how pleased I was about that." I took a slow breath. "The upshot was the Mages weren't really mages...I mean, they were, but there was a _reason_ they were operating in the middle of Elsweyr."

"Necromancers." Roliand filled in.

I nodded. "I'm not remotely afraid of undead things…unless you count vampires. Vampires make me nervous. And liches - I hate liches. They wanted us out-of-towners because they figured we wouldn't ask too many questions about what was going on. I think they wound up under the impression I was just there to keep my father company – someone to play cards with, or watch the Senches. I didn't talk much to them, so they had no idea.

"I also think they wanted me to begin with, but obviously they were having some trouble getting me, not the least because I wasn't exactly helpless. They snatched one of the locals, a Khajiit girl – quite a feat, if you've never fought a Khajiit, they're insane up close and personal. I remember her screaming as they dragged her down into the dig-site. Einar and I, and a couple others were fighting what felt like an army of skeletons and zombies you know, the usual undead troops…" I paused to gather my recollections. Even now, I don't know why they wanted her, or possibly me, or what they were up to. Most of me doesn't _want_ to know. As if I don't have enough to give me nightmares right now…

"She was still screaming when we were halfway down the stairs into the dig site – ruins or something like that. Halfway down, the screams suddenly stopped. Just, as suddenly as if they'd never been uttered, and I noticed the _feel_ of the place. It was…sickly, gross…Einar…Einar made me stay put. 'Wait here on the stairs for me, Lirah, I'll come back for you,' he told me. I didn't know which was worse, trying to go forward or staying put, unable to help."

For a moment the memory was powerful, almost overwhelming. I could feel the way the darkness on the stairway reached out for me, ran cold, damp tendrils across my skin. Could hear echoes of the screams and shouts that left me paralyzed. I wanted to go, I genuinely did. I wanted to help. Einar was right to make me stay put – though I don't doubt if he hadn't, I wouldn't have made it to the bottom of the stairs,a t least, not in any condition to contribute to the fight.

"We argued because I couldn't bear to be thought weak, but Einar is my father, as well as my senior in the Guild. I don't know if he saw that I was having trouble, or if he simply wanted to protect me, but I lost the argument, so I stayed where I was, like I was told." It was terrible, waiting like that. You can hear every little noise, echoing around in the vast dark depths, but you don't _know_ anything. "I hated it." My fingernails would have cut into my palms just now, if I'd had any fingernails. Apparently, during pauses in my story, I'd taken to biting on them again.

The feel of the place, the wrongness of it, still seeps into my nightmares sometimes. Not often, but sometimes. Most recently last night – I didn't sleep well. The Sisters asked me if I was prone to nightmares. I don't think they believed me when I said I wasn't – I'm not, really. But Oblivion Gates tend to give you nightmares...and nightmares swarm like angry bees or hungry slaughterfish near a carcass.

I hadn't had this particular nightmare in ages.

"Einar and the few who went with him came back up some time later, tattered, bloody, a real mess. The girl…she was dead." I bit my lip then licked them before continuing. "Einar said we'd leave in the morning, gave me the pep talk. While he was sleeping, catching a few hours of rest before we left, I sneaked back down into the ruins. I don't think he knows I did it, to this day. I sure as hell didn't tell him. The place still felt malevolent, but not nearly so much so as when I'd waited on the stairs…"

"Sensing magicka?" Roliand inserted.

"I think. Come to find out, I'm not _entirely_ Mundane," I grunted. "If I'd gone down there, while the Necromancers were still at large, still doing…whatever it was they were doing…" I shook my head. The image of her slashed and mangled body still flickered in my mind's eye. "I'd have cracked. I know I would. But it didn't make it any easier - I felt like an absolute failure. Weak. Pathetic, even." I closed my eyes, immediately wishing I hadn't. The old feeling of bitter self-resentment vanished long ago, but the cold fear still lingered. "People react differently to things. It's better to stay on the stairs, Rols, and fight in another fight, on another day than to force yourself down and break. I know it doesn't feel that way – I really do. That increases the chances of you getting killed – so there's no _option_ to fight again. You're just…dead." This pep-talk won't, I know from experience, sink, in and take effect for a few days at best.

"What happened then?" Roliand pressed, his expression full of a sort of sick fascination, as if he couldn't reconcile what he was hearing and what he thought he knew about me, my personality.

I shook my head. "I did a little poking around, I went back to the tent Einar and I were now sharing. He didn't want me too far out of his range of protection. I forced myself cheerful and 'as usual' the next morning and we went back to the city, stayed for a few days – I think he wanted give things time to settle down, give me time to come to grips, or whatever - then we went home. The locals saw to their own, despite our offers of assistance."

I've always said I'm a poor liar – absolutely horrible.

This only goes to show I'm one of the best out there. I've finally almost managed to convince myself it's true – everyone else certainly believes it. I shivered uncomfortably. I actually cut quite a bit of this story out when I retell it – no mention of Necromancers or dead bodies anywhere. Just a fun trip into Elsweyr. It was fun – the mission wasn't.

--A--


	20. Chapter 20

Author's notes: Hey! It's an early update! Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Twenty

--A--

I didn't realize this morning how absolutely _starving_ I was until the cook – cooks, actually, a husband and wife team - commented that I ate as much as a teenage boy, then asked if there was anything the matter. Well, the full repercussions of being in Oblivion apparently include increased appetite, because I was working on my second helping of lunch.

Cheryl, one of the cooks, claimed she never saw such a cute mouth stuffed to capacity_ 'hnh?' _face. After a glib comment about the Oblivion Gate cuisine being unsuitable for the civilized palate, Cheryl started fussing a little the next chance she got.

"Heya." I waved as I felt a _presence_ creeping up on me, the barest prickling between my shoulder blades. I've learned to trust those 'weird feelings'. If nothing's there, no harm no foul, but if something _is_…

Martin appeared out of my blind spot to sit across from me a moment later. "Eyes in the back of your head."

"Light behind you – I saw your shadow," I answered mildly, pointing with my fork, repressing a grin as I did so.

Martin actually checked before he realized I was bullshitting him, sucking on my spoon as I smiled with a sort of sedate amusement. I don't feel particularly high energy, or keyed up today.

Aside from which, shadows in the Great Hall lie to the left or the right, depending from which bay of windows the light comes. He shook his head then gave me a dazzling smile, which was a little too evil for a priest to wear – then again, I suppose he's not exactly a priest anymore, but still. That's the smile of someone who wants something. I dropped my bread in my soup, gaping at the charming smile.

"I want you to teach me the sword." Martin said simply.

The words were very clear, no stutter or distortion. "Ooooh….kay…" I answered slowly around my spoon. The question 'why me' kept dancing around behind my teeth – a question I was determined not to ask. I do wonder, though. I'm not even the most experienced person here. Sure, I don't mind if I clip him in practice session – you go in expecting to get knocked about a bit – but I'm sure the others are just as practical. Hell, _Jauffre_ would probably teach if Martin asked.

Still wondering if this wasn't part of secret plan – then wondering if I was simply acting paranoid – I continued to suck on my spoon. "I see. That's smart," I finally articulated. What are you up to?

Martin continued to beam winningly at me, though not in a way that caused any discomfort.

What is it with Septim men? They're all angsty and they frown a lot, then they turn on the charm so it's like kicking a puppy to tell them to get lost. He's going to make a _great_ politician, if that look works half so well on other people.

I'm not sure I like that idea; I tend not to like politicians very much.

"You…" are very dangerous, and if I had an iota of sense I'd tell you what to do with yourself, _by_ yourself, and apologize for it later. "…What? I've been out of the information loop a couple of days –what's going on?" I asked, as pleasantly as I could manage, changing tracks quickly.

Stop looking at me like that. You're making me nervous. I hack things when I'm nervous. And Bite my nails. As if on cue one hand raised itself up to mouth level, ready for me to choose and nail and start nibbling.

"No evil plans, Ailirah," Martin shrugged, obviously enjoying my reaction.

Well, I'm happy he's happy, but I'm still not convinced.

"I told Jauffre I thought it would be advantageous to learn the sword, and he agreed, on the condition I could find a Blade willing to teach me. I simply figured you'd have little problem doing so, as you've mentioned the issue before." Polite, to the point…I don't know. Maybe I am acting paranoid – the question is _why_. I'm not the paranoid sort.

Well, let's stay on the smart side, he _does_ need to learn. You never know when you'll need it. Besides – what if Martin's magicka ever fizzled? He'd be up shit creek, and in this game, that means 'dead'.

"He didn't think anyone would do it, at risk of his displeasure by knocking you black and blue?" I asked.

"I have a little more faith in your skills than that," Martin responded. I wasn't sure how to classify his tone for that, but I didn't like what I read into the sentiment at all. It's not only impractical, it's virtually _impossible_, and I don't want anyone thinking I'm superhuman or anything.

"I really appreciate that, Martin, but it doesn't really reflect on skills," I corrected gently. Best we nip this misconception in the bud. "_Everyone_ gets knocked about in a sparring lesson. Its part of the experience. That's why we call them 'accidents'. I'll be bruised, you'll be bruised, and _that's_ why we suit up before we practice – safety first. Hell, Brutus broke my collarbone once while we were 'practicing'."

What a day – of course, I jabbed him black and blue around the kidneys, I suppose he got tired of the gut shots.

"He did?" Martin looked genuinely shocked.

Knowing a little more about the situation – though really thinking about it – I nodded as if this were the usual order of business. "Yeah – I dodged faster than he expected and the practice sword just…._crack_," I tapped the old injury with the edge of my hand to illustrate the break. "He didn't _mean_ to hurt me, it just _happened_. Though, it's not likely I'll be breaking any of _your_ bones, so don't worry." I assured him cheerfully, fishing my now soggy bread out of my bowl with two fingers before stuffing it into my mouth.

It's true, but then again I teach people to attack first, defend second. What good is staving off an enemy if you can't do anything about them? They're not just going to go away, and you can't count on whoever you're with - if you even have a team with you – getting to a point where they'll be able to break away long enough to bail you out.

"So…you'll do it?"

I suppose I never really answered the question. Quite apart from which, you know – I'm going to have to stop thinking of him as a priest if he keeps making those faces. It's incongruous. Dangerously charming- he's going to make a hell of a politician. I'm almost disappointed – because most of the time, I don't like politicians. They talk too much and half of what they say is just catering to the masses. I'd really hate to lump Martin in with that crowd. I can only hope a decent upbringing and years of service with the clergy will ward him against some of the politicos' really bad habits.

Finishing my mouthful of bread and stew I sighed, though more at the idea of 'politico' than 'sword practice', the latter of which I truly enjoy.

I just don't want anyone getting mad when someone – myself included – gets hurt.

"Get a practice sword. I don't want to hear you whining to me if I knock you about." I commanded, pouting as I said it, though I doubt anyone would take me seriously just now.

Martin smiled, as I snickered softly. Just think of it: two days ago I'd have thought this was some kind of conspiracy to get me in trouble, or give Jauffre migraines. Patting my hand – which caused a funny non-magical jolt to run through my arm – Martin got to his feet. "I'll consider the bruises lessons well learned on what _not_ to do." He announced pleasantly, all traces of wicked scheming gone.

He's dangerous. He could smile at you while plotting your imminent demise and you'd _never even know it_! "You do that." I nodded, watching him go as 'mentor's mentality' settled over me. He'll be fine – he doesn't strike me as having any particular handicaps. Plus, willing learners are always better than forced-into-it ones.

Smirking with the prospect of doing what I'm usually doing – as opposed to anything Oblivion related - I got up. Here I thought I was in for a normal day.

--A--

"All right – first off, safety." I selected a light cuirass, then walked over and hefted it over Martin's head, before fastening it as Cyrus had done for me. By now I know how to fit and fasten these funny suits of armor, even if I still prefer my chainmail. "You practice with me, you armor up. I don't want any broken bones if at all possible," I yanked on a cord to tighten the armor, "Helmet too."

"You're not wearing one," Martin pointed out.

True, I wear the armor, but not the helmet. It messes with my vision. "Yeah, well, I'm stupid and _you_ need your head. There's nothing in mine, remember?" I knocked my knuckles against my head, indicative of this. I'm not an incredibly smart person – you'll never catch me playing chess, or engaging in witty verbal warfare. I'll simply call you an asshole and proceed to open hostilities.

To my surprise Martin frowned. "You sell yourself short."

The lack of joking in his voice made me look up, smiling ruefully. "I'm not a really smart person, Martin. My brains are in my temper and my fists…it's okay though, it takes all sorts," I patted his shoulder bracingly, though gently by the usual standards. He's not used to getting walloped by Fighters Guild agents. "Besides," I handed him a helmet, "I always figured if I wound up in over my head, I'd ask to borrow your brains. You know – like you borrow my punching arm." I batted the air with a pretended punch, earning a smile in the process. "Come on, you should know by now not to take me _too_ seriously."

Tugging his arm before heading out I did have to wonder. I've never considered myself highly intelligent. Oh, I'm smart after my own fashion – put me in a martial situation and I'll be in my element - but bring on the political double talk, my eyes go glassy, my articulation whittles down to 'huh' and 'nuh?'. See? Not smart, not really.

If Martin had any reservations about training outside – the way Blades do, when the weather's fine, he said nothing. I expect Jauffre will show up here any moment to 'supervise' (more likely, to make sure I don't kill something accidentally. I'm not an orc with an ego trip, you know – but I respect the concern, nonetheless).

I was not using a sword, of course, but a stout length of oak somewhat longer than my arm. It's not Silent Partner, but it won't do as much damage if I do get a really good strike in. "Okay – come at me." Adjusting my feet, I beckoned Martin towards me.

"Just like that?"

I joke less when I teach, particularly if there's a weapon in my hand, even if it's only a stick. "It's a hands-on learning experience. Come at me," I responded calmly. This is _exactly_ how my first lesson with the sword went. I'll bet it ends the same way, too. I love seeing things come full circle.

Martin shrugged, looking around as if for inspiration, or guidance, then he set his feet, gave a fortifying exhale and 'came at me'.

I knocked the wooden sword free of his hands so fast he was still blinking when the oak stopped just short of his neck. "Rule one: never just come at someone, if you can come in from a less obvious direction." I walked over and retrieved the sword, handing it back to him. "You're lucky – when I started learning, I couldn't feel my wrist for the better part of half an hour - Markos told me 'don't be lazy- use your other hand'."

"Ah, that's why the magically lazy comment amused you so much." Martin responded, readjusting his stance.

I nodded, a little surprised that exchange lingered – I mean, _I_ thought it was funny, but he was sort of out of the loop at the time. "Okay, first off, you're standing flat-footed. Weight on your toes, just a little… Feet," I hesitated a moment then stepped behind him, one hand between his shoulder blades so he'd know where I was. "Move this one, there," I nudged the heel of his right foot with my toe, then the instep of his left. "There you go – feel balanced?"

Martin took a moment test his balance then nodded. "Yes."

"Good. You're using an Akaviri katana – or probably will be – so you hold it differently, this hand moves up," tucking my practice stick beneath my arm like a riding crop, I adjusted his upper hand, then the other. "And the pinkie wraps like so, there." I've seen this before, by the way, so I'd know.

"It feels odd."

"_Anything_ will feel odd at this point, it's all right. Here, show me your right hand." He held it up obediently. I twisted it, palm up, holding mine beside it for comparison. "No calluses. You're going to be sore for awhile, if you keep up with this. But don't be an ass – if the blisters break, take time to heal. It they _bleed_, we take the day off, I don't care how much magicka you pump into them. Trust me on this one." I declared firmly, letting his hand go.

"You've done this before, haven't you?" Martin asked, bemused, returning his right hand back to the practice sword.

It made me feel oddly self-conscious, having tougher, more battered hands than a guy. Usually it's not the case, being in the Guild, but still. Kind of a first for me. Oh well. At least I know I'm useful in a fight.

"Sure – Fighter's Guild agents are expected to work together. We teach each other. Versatility – it's a survival trait." I answered blandly, steeping back. "On your guard…no, like this – mirror me." I moved my 'sword' to the guard position. "Good – you're already rocking your weight forward," I noted, watching his posture change.

You keep your weight on the balls of your feet so you can change direction quickly, it also improves your balance. Fighting flatfooted is not really recommended, unless you're bracing yourself against something and need to 'dig your heels in'. "Elbows stay bent – swing at me. It's okay, nice and easy," I advised. "You're not used to…" I blocked, the wooden weapons clacking off each other, "…swinging a weapon around…so you…" I blocked two strikes in quick succession, grinning. "…need to get used to…the feel of…" I frowned, having to stop talking to deflect his next attack, a brute-force attack.

"Of?" he asked.

He's joking, I can tell by the way his features are kind of twisted into an attempt at seriousness, it looks very forced. I'm not sure I want to join in the joking – just enjoy the clatter of the sparring swords or something, this is serious business. I countered the next blow before retaliating, the sword spinning out of his hand. "Of me hitting you back." I answered sweetly, changing the end of the first thought.

"What is this?" Jauffre waited longer than I expected.

Striding forward I picked up Martin's sword and tossed it back to him. He caught it dexterously as I looked at Jauffre. "_Sparring_." I answered blandly. "About time, too – what if the shit hits the ceiling? Fortunately for us," I gave Martin a rather assessing look – I'm officially all business now. "He's a quick learner – damn quick - fair balance, no prodigy, but train him right and he'll hold his own in a fight." I nodded approvingly.

Oh – I forgot. Jauffre hates it when I swear in front of Martin. Come on, Jauffre, he's older than me, and he's not a girl. Give the man some breathing room – it's not like he's never heard it before. I don't think of him as a priest so exclusively that I feel the need to curb my language. He's a _friend. _Friends call it like it is.

Nyaah.

"See? I even made him wear armor, we're using wooden toy swords! We're okay. I've only hit him twice, and that's loads less than he's hit me. Good on you," I added cheerfully, "for not being wishy-washy about hitting girls." I had worried, for a little while, I'd have to clear that hurdle. Good thing I'm not the only practical person running around here.

"Yes well, the girl I know will hit _back_. It sort of makes the point moot."

My peel of laughter spiraled towards the sky, ringing in the clear dome of the Bruma air. "I like that! Keep that!" I reached around him, as if he were one of my brothers, to pat his shoulder then quickly moved away once I had. I don't know what turned the moment awkward…but before it could seem awkward it anyone else, I moved on with the lesson.

--A--


	21. Chapter 21

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Twenty-One

--A--

"Good…" I could feel the spell pulsing pleasantly between my cupped hands. "Concentrate…" Martin's hands moved away from mine, the reinforcing feel of his magicka – which oddly enough reminds me of Cyrodiilic brandy (which I despise on all but the worst days), red light as if from a fire, and a sensation like something soft dragged across the skin. It's very odd.

I actually asked him about this, when we started- though I didn't give specifics. He says all mages have earmarks to their magicka, and that mine had a distinctly Nordic feel to it. When asked 'what's that supposed to mean?' he just chuckled and admitted he felt 'wind and rain' in my magicka. I think he was omitting a few key details too (not that I wasn't either) – but that's just me. I also suspect mages can't feel their own magical signatures.

At first I found it highly uncomfortable, like having a stranger sit down beside me and wrap an arm around my shoulders. After a few days, though, I got used to it. The signature's actually rather pleasant, once I stopped to think about it.

In the two and a half weeks which have elapsed since I closed my second Gate, Martin and I have established a sort of regimen. We'll spar for an hour at least during the day, he's supposed to run through the basic forms before he goes to bed every night, just like any novice. I'm pretty sure he does, as he's not a slacker, but I'm not supervising.

For an hour or so I study magicka – though the whole hour isn't devoted to casting. I don't have that kind of duration. On that note, Martin has never magically run me into the ground, just to find my limits. I suppose he thinks it best to teach me the mechanics, letting duration take care of itself. Before _I_ go to bed – usually while I'm in the bath, actually – I'm supposed to practice calling my magicka, just as far as my fingers, to feel it tingle in my hands, ready to take shape. I can't wait to learn how to keep the bath warm with a well-placed spell.

However, during the day, we experiment with magicka. Usually the spells aren't remotely helpful in the real world – except perhaps the magelights, which I can now conjure competently – but they're interesting, amusing, or otherwise distracting. Apparently my attention span is factored into the lessons. I know more about the theory than I can actually put into practice.

Still, it's nice to sit on the library floor ensconced between bookshelves, where I don't get deprecating looks, or Cyrus (my evil twin) and Caroline (the adult supervision) teasing me about being a Mundane. The spell flickered, my hands stiffened, like trying to shield a candle's flame from guttering out.

"Easy." Martin intoned.

Easy for you to say – drat for letting my mind wander. The spell evened out and I took a hesitant breath – I find I hold my breath when trying to force a spell not to fizzle on me.

"Good. Make it blue."

"Why blue?" My concentration wavered as Martin laughed. It took some effort not to open my eyes as I stabilized the spell.

"All right then, make it green."

"I like blue better." I responded, smirking with playful contrariness. Why shouldn't I feel playful – _I'm doing magicka_! Consistently!

"Keep that up and I'll have you make it green with blue sparkles. Change the color – it's white now."

Of course it is – my lights are always white to start with, it's the easiest color to conjure. Magically lazy, perhaps, but I concentrated nonetheless, grinning at the idea of green sparkles. This is the mage's equivalent of running through swordsmanship forms before bed. You cast a light and make it do things. As I'm next to a Mundane, it's still a real challenge for me, but one I enjoy. Changing the color of the light is a show of will, and of mental imagery.

Martin hinted the more I do this, the easier it'll get. We'll see.

Gathering my focus again I let the concept of 'blue' and 'things that are blue' flow from head to hands, infusing the light, which buzzed softly between y hands, like holding a warm, vibrating stone, only somewhat less solid. Blue. Bluebells. The sky. The sea. Markos' favorite shirt. Martin's eyes.

"Good – look."

Opening my eyes, one then the other in case I needed the close them quickly, to reestablish focus. Cupped in my hands flickered a cheerfully blue ball of flames, a lovely shade of forget-me-not blue. It's so petty! Yes, it's true: I like watching the magical lights.

I know – simple pleasures for simple minds.

The spell fizzled and the light went out. "Oh dammit!" I groaned, snapping my fingers into my other hand, as if one were flint, the steel, and my hand a way to catch the sparks. The white light immediately blossomed in my hand. Martin watched carefully, from what I could see of his face in my peripheral vision he wore a look of approval. I closed my hands together. When I separated them, I held a little ball of white light in either.

"It's getting easier," Martin noted, scooping one of the lights from one of my hand, like using a spoon to scoop butter from the tub.

"Yeah," I nodded and bit my lip, eyebrows knitting together as Martin casually blew on his light – well, it's still mine – and I felt that funny sensation of something silky running along my spine as the light turned sunny yellow with fizzling orange sparks.

Focusing again – hard to do as long as he asserts his own magicka against the spell I started, as opposed to reinforcing a spell which lacks the distracting magical earmarks – my white light turned ruby-red. I've noticed the difficulty of a color depends on where it lies in the spectrum, red the easiest after white, violet the most difficult. Blues, though, defy this convention, as the closer they are to grey, the easier they are to cast. Martin says it has to do with my magicka. He also says you can tell a bit about a mage by the color of his or her magelight before they tinker with it, and by which colors come easier.

Rain and wind, right.

I'm not sure what his dark red light means.

"Ahem, if you don't mind," I addressed the light and snapped my fingers a few times, yellow glitters of light appearing in the red. "There we go."

"Good." Martin reached over with his free hand, and poked the light, which immediately changed to green with orange spots.

_Spots. _

"Oi! You're breaking the rules! _Cheetahs_ have spots, _lights don't_!" This was where I lost concentration last time. Struggling to focus, to change the color back to red was like pressing against a brick wall. Then suddenly, the 'wall' gave way, and the light exploded back into red with golden sparkles. "Hahahaha…" I chortled, breathing a little harder than I would have liked.

"You're getting much better," Martin nodded, holding out the light.

I didn't take it back, but leaned forward and blew into his palm, the light blowing out like a candle flame. Grinning I did the same for mine, feeling the flow of magicka into my hands stop. "Thanks." I flexed my fingers, feeling the trail of magicka race from my elbow – which is where I start to feel it – to my fingers. "You ready to get some fresh air?" I asked, getting stiffly to my feet.

It's nice to practice magicka in the library, but in reality, it's not the most comfortable place.

I noticed I wasn't the only one warding off stiff muscles.

Strolling towards the great hall, Cyrus appeared from the wing where the barracks was located, carrying along, heavy-looking package. "There you are – I've been looking all over for you." he set the package on the table. "Bumph asked me to take this up to you."

"How's she doing?" I haven't seen Bumph for about two days. She's cranky when she's hurt, and she's still recovering from her injuries. Right-Wind did lose his eye, though he maintains it's not as bad as it sounds. He's hoping some squirt in the Mages' Guild might come up with a magical alternative, one of these days. None of us have discussed the Gate.

Right-Wind and Bumph swore up and down my brothers wouldn't hear a _word_ about 'Ailirah' and 'Oblivion Gates' in the same sentence. My parents, too, weren't to hear about it either.

"She's doing better – rattling around on her crutches and smashing stuff. You know how Orcs are when they're hurt and feeling cagey. She was shouting at Right-Wind when I left."

Cyrus tends to drop by when he goes into Bruma, but I don't or can't, for whatever reason. It's really nice of him, but I also think he just likes Bumph and Right-Wind. They're good people. "See? I keep telling them they've got to tie the knot one of these days," I remarked blandly, fumbling with the twin that held the heavy paper wrappings closed.

It hit me – I know what this is…my fingers shook in anticipation.

"Where's Martin?"

"Getting geared up," I answered. "Speaking of which – you feel like playing guinea pig today?" Jauffre and I have a silent but not unpleasant war going on about my refusal to wear my Akaviri armor unless I'm reminded of it – though it's less important since I explained I was going to get killed if I ever had to do anything in it. It's too cumbersome, so now he corrects me about it when he doesn't have anything else to say – I think it's his idea of a running joke, but with his sense of humor so noticeably undeveloped, I'm not so sure.

True to form, I wore my chainmail today. My latest justification is I supposedly never know when Martin will want a swordsmanship lesson, and it's easier for him to see what he's supposed to do when I wear my chainmail – that's the other part of the thing, I come up with smartass justifications for my lack of uniform. Jauffre hasn't come up with an argument for my last excuse, but I got kitchen patrol for five days for my cheek – which means he _couldn't_ come up with anything, and is simply a bad loser.

Cheer up Jauffre, it's just a game.

It was worth it though – Caroline and I snickered about it later.

Cyrus chuckled humorlessly. He's my favorite candidate to help demonstrate concepts, so Martin can watch what it should look like before he tries it. Cyrus says he gets tired of being wailed on, in the name of education and suggests _I_ take a turn as the guinea pig.

'After all,' he'll grin in that cheeky way of his 'I've been fighting with a katana a lot longer than _you_.' Good times.

The paper wraps of the package –and Cyrus peering interestedly at it I started on the silk wrappings.

My eyes glowed as I folded back the silken wrappings around the new sword. In the excitement of events, in getting Silent Partner back, I completely forgot that Einar set out to forge me a new weapon…and what a weapon it is!

I could feel the tingle of magicka lying dormant in the blade, ice magicka, if I'm not mistaken, and I'm sure I'm not. The blades honed keen and sharp, glittering coldly in the light of the great hall. On the blades, etched with the elegant script Einar usually marks his works with was the name "FROSTREAVER". It's an old name, and references the fact that it's the frost damage that will most likely kill you. Apt, very apt.

"Wow…" Cyrus goggled. "Are you planning to finish this war all by yourself?"

The grip was set with decorative blue glass, even as I lifted the weapon, I felt perfectly balanced with it. It wasn't one jot heavier or lighter than Silent Partner, nor longer, nor shorter. It could have been Silent Partner's prettier twin, only made to deal with Daedra, for the metal was a different blend, as was the magical damage it would deal. I tested the grips again – despite the decorations in the grip, they caused me no trouble, none at all. Beautiful and functional!

"Oh Daddy…" I breathed, hefting the weapon experimentally.

"Looks like you've found the love of your life, 'Lirah." Cyrus teased.

Oh yeah. Bring on the Daedra – hell, bring on all the bad guys! Cyrus is right, I think I'm in love…

I stopped and squinted. Etched near the hilt on one blade was a…

Stylized. Dancing. Chipmunk.

_Daddy!_

I can't believe that – still, it is funny. '_Hey did you hear, Lord Dagon got his ass kicked by a dancing chipmunk with a bigass sword_'. '_No! Really?' _Yeah – that's going to go over _really_ well. Chuckling at the play of images in my mind's eye, I leaned Frostreaver against the table so I could settle Silent Partner in the silk wrappings and tie it up securely. It's always good to have a fallback.

"Ailirah?"

Martin reappeared, without his gear. He examined Frostreaver for a moment, nodding approvingly before looking back at me. "We may, will, need to cancel sparring this morning. Jauffre wants to see you," he beckoned that I should follow him.

Hmm – I'll bet Jauffre didn't expect Martin to play messenger.

"Let me put Silent Partner up, and I'll be right there," I promised, taking both weapons awkwardly in my arms before heading for the barracks.

The barracks is a long room, divided by wooden screens, men on the left, women on the right. With floors covered in thick mats. With Blades trickling in, we've pulled the bunk beds out of storage so it's less quaint and a little more practical.

I also took the opportunity to change into my Akaviri cuirass, tightening the fastenings awkwardly as I walked myself and Frostreaver to Jauffre's office. If you look at the great hall, there are doors on all four sides. Heading from the entrance straight back leads to Jauffre's office, the library on the right, and the armory to the left. The armory actually opens onto a hallway that leads off towards the barracks, which shares the same side of the building (and down a flight of four or five stairs) with the infirmary – useful, huh?

Jauffre opened his mouth to say something, but closed it when he realized I was both in uniform and carrying an unfamiliar weapon. Even someone who's only seen Silent Partner a few times would spot the differences between it and Frostreaver. They look alike and yet they don't. "Frostreaver – a gift from Daddy," I announced to the room at large, which consisted of Jauffre standing behind his desk, Martin sitting comfortably in a chair, his two bodyguards (I think he had a word with Jauffre about four being two too many), as well as a skinny Blade younger than myself, still bearing signs of travel.

He was goggling at Frostreaver, ignoring me.

"What's wrong?" I addressed Jauffre.

"Baurus is requesting assistance, in the Imperial City." Jauffre announced neutrally. "You must go with all speed – he's currently stationed at Luther Broad's Boarding House in the Elven Gardens district of the Imperial City. You're well-acquainted with the situation, and therefore well-suited to helping Baurus deal with it."

I looked from the messenger, to Jauffre, then to Martin. I could tell he did not like the idea of sending me, but I think this is more chivalry than practicality. I'm all for the idea – I was there to see some of the start of this mess, I'd like to be one of the ones to keep seeing it, making sure everything pans out in our favor. It also makes sense from the logistic standpoint – I don't know how much the other Blades know, but from what Jauffre's just said I don't think everyone has all the details. I probably don't. "Okay. No problem. Anything else?" I asked.

"With any luck, Baurus will have some information on this enemy. However, keep your head down, and try a little subtlety," Jauffre advised.

We don't do subtlety – but I didn't say this out loud, obviously. "Okay – I'll get my stuff together and get going." Turning, I withdrew, sliding the door shut softly behind me. What makes more sense is I'm easily recognizable – redhead with a Tang Mo sword? How many of those are running around the Empire? I'm starting to feel as if there's a bull's-eye painted on my back.

Still, I'm not complaining. Better me who's ready for it than someone who's not.

Struggling to loosen my armor as I walked, my nerves began to hum. This is it – back in the field. I'm so glad – the Blades are under orders not to wander too far away from Cloud Ruler Temple while things are so unstable. It's nice to visit Bruma, but I'd _like_ to stop by Chorrol to talk to Uncle Modryn, or head back down to Leyawiin to see my parents. You know – thank Daddy for this _gorgeous_ sword! I could take out half of Oblivion with this thing!

Even if it's got a dancing chipmunk on it. Maybe no one but me will notice.

Abandoning my Akaviri armor, as well as anything that might identify me as a Blade, which meant my old clothes and my trusty chainmail. It was strange seeing myself in the mirror hanging on one of the sections of screen, looking like the me I remember, instead of who I'd begun to look like, these past few weeks. I look more like my real age, for one thing.

I couldn't help but notice my hair has picked up a little sun, lightening at the crown of my head. For a moment – just a flicker. For a moment, I thought I caught a red reflect in my eyes. On closer inspection, however, there was nothing amiss, just the usual earthy brown.

Hmm. Whatever. Trick of the light, I suppose. Nords and Imperials don't have red eyes.

I left after securing from Caroline and Cyrus a promise they would keep training with Martin in my absence. It'll be good for him to have all of them, really, to have something else to focus on, rather than a friend walking into potentially mortal peril. I'm not that worried, but it's easy to say that before the trouble starts.

What worried _me_ was walking into the Imperial City only to find myself arrested again. Though I suspect more than hope the Blades have had a couple words with the city watch, so I shouldn't have too much trouble.

--A--


	22. Chapter 22

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Nineteen

--A--

Luther Broad, an aging Imperial who looked tough enough to discourage all but the worst of the Einarson brand of trouble, ran a clean, spiffy-looking establishment. The common room sported a high ceiling, large leaded windows – mage-made windows, which meant they wouldn't break if a barfight somehow got out of hand – gleaming wooden surfaces, and cheerful music, provided by a wizened bard and his dancer companion. I'd hate to see how Broad breaks up barfights – I'll bet he was in the Legion, as a younger man.

Baurus himself sat hunched at the bar, nursing a mug of ale, apparently glaring into nothingness. I couldn't help but notice the mug was almost full. Given the nature of the Blades, as well as Jauffre's remark about my employing subtlety, I didn't just run up to Baurus screaming about our mission. Rather, I walked sedately over to the bar, sliding delicately onto one of the stools, hooking my heels on the rung, before leaning Frostreaver against the counter.

Looking up to order, I found Luther Broad squinting at me, or rather, glaring at Frostreaver. Ohh – that's going to mess up the floors. Woops.

"Oi, mind you don't scuff the floors with that thing," Luther Broad announced simply, eying Frostreaver with some disquiet. I suppose it's a valid concern – I never found a way to sheath Silent Partner, so I had no way of doing so for Frostreaver. Some weapons just don't take kindly to protective cushioning – hmm. Sounds like a certain redhead we all can name.

Well, a warrior's soul _is_ in her sword. Here's the proof.

"Sorry, I'll try not to," I answered blandly. Not that I can do much about it, but as long as I don't fight, the scuffing will stay small. "Can I get a…" I pondered. "Oh – surprise me." I produced several coins, setting them on the bar with a tentative smile.

Broad pocketed the gold before leaving, returning with a goblet of fruity wine.

Hot day that it is, I would have much preferred a dark beer or something, only too glad for a cooling draught. However, as I did not want to attract attention – complaints invariably attract attention - I sipped the wine, resisting the urge to spit it back out once I had. A little too sweet, a little too fruity…do I even want to know what's in this stuff? Who drinks shit like this? Eeew!

I'm not a wine drinker, just like I'm not the most cultured girl on the face of the planet – even if I know a lot about _cultures_. I like to keep things simple. That's it – I'm going to raid this city later for a decent drink, and a decent meal – neither of which will contain _anything_ fancy. Dark beer and shepherd's pie will do just fine. Maybe some lamb. I like lamb.

Baurus shifted, eying me thoughtfully, before leaning over, murmuring quietly in my ear. "Don't do anything, I'm being watched."

I forced myself to imagine something particularly embarrassing, to the point I flushed brilliantly crimson, before murmuring softly back. "What do you want me to do?" At a distance, anyone would think Baurus had just propositioned me or something.

I did look more like a very petite, pretty little merchant with a big sword than anything else. Doubtless no one expected me to have any skill with the weapon. All part of my master plan. Most people overlook unassuming, quiet people. That's when the trap springs closed and all hell breaks loose.

"When I get up and go, the guy in the corner's going to follow me – you follow him. Got it?" Baurus asked briskly.

"Got it." I cleared my throat uncomfortably, fidgeting nervously about my neck. "No, no I…I really don't think so." Still blushing furiously – though the color started to recede quickly – I looked into my wine, as if highly uncomfortable. It's got a pretty color, but that's about all this stuff has going for it. Why is the expensive stuff – and I'm sure this is expensive – always so nasty? Is it a rule of thumb?

"Your loss," Baurus shrugged, getting up then disappearing out of my range of vision.

Broad, too, watched Baurus go. Then the innkeeper's eyes snapped towards the hard-faced Breton who followed Baurus a moment later, casting a deeply suspicious look at me once he was in my range of vision. I ignored it, pretending to contemplate my wine, hopefully sending out the impression of 'no one talk to me', while he apparently decided the talk with Baurus really was innocuous.

The door clicked shut behind Baurus and the Breton. I counted to five before getting up myself, giving them time to get ahead of me, before picking up Frostreaver. "Watch my drink." I hailed Broad as I got to my feet.

Broad's eyes lingered on the weapon. "What, are you planning a threesome or something?" He asked.

I blushed, for real this time. "Something like that." I answered with all the dignity I could manage.

Eeew!

Slipping quietly as I could through the door, though I didn't latch it. Following the stairway winding down to the basement or wine cellar I felt a wave of uncomfortable nostalgia. This is no time for _that_. Thankfully, the steps were of stone, carved into the bedrock rather than wood, which might creak and betray me. I could see the Breton's shadow up ahead, rippling along on the uneven stone walls.

Slipping forward I heard Baurus hail him. "You picked a bad day."

Baurus did not look at me, deftly avoiding betraying my presence when I slipped up behind the Breton.

I know some people say to attack from behind is the epitome of honorless, cowardly, low-down behavior, a tactic not even worthy of consideration by anyone with so much as a shred of moral fiber.

These are _usually_ the people who have never entered a pitched battle, who think the 'good' guys have some kind of magical mystical protection spawning from who knows where because they are the so-called 'good guys'. It's a form of naiveté. The fact is, you do what you have to so you come home alive. If the enemy isn't checking his back, it's _his_ problem.

Baurus and the Breton both moved, but not quite as fast as I did.

With a shout I brought Frostreaver arching forward, slicing into the Breton's torso. His arm fell off as Frostreaver lodged in the bones of his spine, frost blossoming around the wounds, a sort of icy-cauterization. Fairly clean, considering how extensive the damage was. If I had put a little more strength into the blow, it probable would have cut right though the spine as well.

I yanked on the weapon as the Breton fell, but Frostreaver remained lodged in the man's spine. Hmm. A first, I think. Tug, tug…come on, come loose already! I'm going to have to really work to get this thing out…so much for finesse.

"Wow – you really _can_ use that thing…" Baurus noted as I put a foot on the Breton's shoulder, pushing against it, tugging on Frostreaver, the weapon grinding slightly as it loosened out of the bones of the Breton's spine, finally popping free a moment later. Tapping the blade against the floor the frozen blood flaked right off, like snow.

Gee, Daddy, you really put yourself out on this one! I feel so special! Nothing but the best for his little girl. "And you thought it was all for show," I grinned cheekily.

Apparently Baurus didn't realize I was not supposed to exert so much effort in whipping a weapon free from an enemy's corpse, so my image of competency remained unblemished. Or maybe I was living up to expectations – I'd _prefer_ to think the former. "I am glad to see you, by the way," Baurus declared, kneeling by the Breton, a slight grin across his features. "This one's followed me around, watching me for a couple of days now. He's probably one of…_them._"

No probably to it – it makes too much sense. I mean, really. We spy on them, they spy on us…I hope this isn't a precursor to whatever plan they've started cooking up while they've hunkered down, laying low while we stew up in Cloud Ruler Temple. No news is unnerving news, I've discovered.

Taking this as a clue I shouldn't speak _too_ freely about the Blades or anything to do with them, I nodded. "Well, our boy's safe," I said simply. Safe enough, at least. Even if the enemy _does _have a great intelligence network, or lots of people to waste, I still wouldn't put 'attack Cloud Ruler Temple' on the list of things to do. Now if they opened an Oblivion Gate on our doorstep…well, let's hope for right now they don't figure _that _one out.

"What's his name?" Baurus' expression broke into genuine relief.

"Martin. Cyrus and Caroline are keeping an eye on him." He's probably already turned on the charm and got them practicing swordsmanship with him twice a day, morning and evening, regular as you please. I might really have to watch myself when I get back – he's a quick study. Even if he lacks real-life experience, he's learning the skills _very_ quickly. It's more student motivation than teacher aptitude.

"Thank Talos he lives! Martin Septim, you say…" Baurus considered, then nodded approvingly. I'm glad Martin was spared any ridiculously fancy names – the one he's got suits him very well. "Well, we'll restore him to his proper place!" Baurus grinned – I knew he wanted to say 'to his throne', though shouting about it did not fall under the heading of 'subtlety' or of 'cautious'. You _don't_ just shout about this kind of thing. For one, I can see the Emperor's detractors making a bigass rotten 'boo hoo, there go my plans for moving up in the world at the cost of imperial stability' fuss about a lot of things.

You know how they are: he's not the _real_ heir, he can't do it, he's not _trained_, all this without rude comments about his parentage. Namely the fact that he's an illegitimate son – not that it's _his_ fault, mind you. How could it be?

You know, I'd _love_ to find all the illegitimate children of all these name-calling assholes, because I'll bet you septims to _rocks_ most of them have their fair share of…well, you know, _indiscretions_. I despise that kind of hypocrisy, and 'hypocrisy' is not a word I like to swing around very much. It's very ugly, after all.

See? This is why I don't like messing around in politics. I'm too blunt, too idealistic.

"Sworn duty, I know," I nodded, looking around the basement. "So – who's this _s'wit_ working for, or do we not know? Apart from the broad heading of 'them', I mean." Call me a wuss if you want to, I didn't think it wise to tell Baurus Jauffre has _lost_ the Amulet of Kings (no, I'm still not over that!). It won't accomplish anything at the moment, aside from getting him all worried about it.

"Find a place to sit." Baurus waved to the stacks of crates.

"Won't Broad mind?" I can't see him feeling particularly thrilled when he finds out – as he eventually will – there's a _corpse_ in his _basement_. Call it a sneaking suspicion. I've heard of skeletons in the closet but this is…something else.

"Ah, don't worry about it," Baurus waved, "he's a good man. He's worked with us before….never hears or sees a _thing_ when we come to town." Baurus grinned, as did I.

Hey, sneaky stuff without needing to act stealthy!

Perching on a barrel across from Baurus, in a darkened corner, I conjured my magelight, letting it hang in the air like a star above our heads.

"Well, I found out a little about the assassins who killed Uriel. They're part of a Daedric cult, known as the Mythic Dawn." Baurus began. "Not the Dark Brotherhood. Dunno whether to be glad of that or not – the Brotherhood we know we can handle."

I didn't ask, but curiosity piqued: do the Blades hunt assassins when things get boring? "Mehrunes Dagon worshipers." I added. The Mythic Dawn, not the Brotherhood.

"How'd you know that?" Baurus demanded, a little taken aback at my sudden burst of informed-ness

"I was at Kvatch." I answered simply. "I had a mage tell me she was pretty sure that was who we were dealing with."

"Kvatch?" Baurus' face crinkled. "What were you doing in Kvatch? Before or after it was sacked?"

I briefly explained the situation at Kvatch – also pointing out why it had taken so long to get to Jauffre, though I suspect now Baurus already knew – how I'd found Martin, then got him to the Temple. I glossed over the attack on the Priory, neglecting to mention the loss of the Amulet of Kings. One bit of bad news at a time.

"Yeah, well." Baurus shrugged, digesting the information. "I've been tracking some of their agents in the Imperial City." he laughed humorlessly. "I guess they noticed. Good thing you showed up when you did. It was kind of conspicuous, having this guy on my tail." Baurus jerked his chin at the dead body we were content to ignore, except for minor references.

It's not like he can tell anyone anything. He isn't going anywhere, either.

"I can only imagine." Shaking my head I got to my feet, walking back over to the body, frisking it. I turned up only a little, a book in the satchel he wore - up until I sliced said satchel free – across one shoulder. A little gold, a ring with a glassy red stone that felt particularly malevolent, Agronak gro-Malog's signature…Arena fan, huh?

Well, The Grey Prince _is_ possibly the greatest Grand Champion the Arena's ever had – my opinion, of course. I prefer to get into fights, rather than watch them – back home we called it family night.

"Well?" Baurus asked, frowning.

I opened the book, frowning as well, before reading the opening paragraph, the first letter ridiculously embellished almost to the point I couldn't make out what letter it _was_.

"G_reetings, novitiate, and know first a reassurance: Mankar Camoran was once like you, asleep, unwise, protonymic. We mortals leave the dreaming-sleeve of birth the same, unmantled save for the symbiosis with our mothers, thus to practice and thus to rapprochement, until finally we might through new eyes leave our hearths without need or fear that she remains behind. In this moment we destroy her forever and enter the demesne of Lord Dagon._"

Scowling at the page, as well as all the big words I was sure the author didn't know the meaning of, I marked my place with a finger before scowling at Baurus. "Who's Mankar Camoran?" And what's this nut-job rattling on about?

He shrugged. "No idea," taking the book gingerly from me, he leafed through it, his expression darkening with every line he read. "Fanatic bullshit…what the hell?" Baurus summed up my sentiments _exactly _– even more accurately, with his conclusion_. _ "These people are crazy," he poked the book with a finger, blinking at me, half disbelieving.

"No shit," I grunted in approving agreement, taking the book back from him, leafing through it. My head started to hurt from the fanatical zealot's ravings, as well as the sometimes indecipherable intent of certain passages. Too many words only highly educated Mages' Guild muckety-mucks ever bother learning. Where's Dagmar when you need her? I need a translator for this gibberish. "Sounds like they really _do_ want to destroy the world, though. Why am I not surprised?" No imagination.

Baurus grimaced, taking the book back and reading the jacket. "Well, I'm no expert on Daedric shit. Not the sort of stuff people ought to get involved in, if you ask me."

"I'd argue it's good to have an academic knowledge," I shook my head. "So you know what you're seeing when you see it."

"Yeah, just before it bites your head off. I ran afoul of a cluster of Sheogorath's idiots once. Never forgot it." He tapped his temple. "Absolutely loony. And flaming dogs raining down from the sky, Khajiit running crazy - it was a _madhouse_. If I ever find the guy who started that…"

"Yeah well, prince of madness," I shrugged, trying not to sound uncomfortable. I know someone very close to me with a story about flaming dogs. _Please_ tell me he didn't…"What now?" I asked as neutrally as I could. I'm so having a chat with someone when I get home and can devote my full attention to it.

"I'm going to keep my ear to the ground, see what I can turn up. Your best bet is to take this down to the Arcane University, tell the battlemages on guard duty I sent you to talk with Tar-Meena. She's a resident there, knows more about Daedric cults than anyone else we know." Baurus instructed after thinking for a moment.

I took 'we' to mean 'the Blades'. "You want me to go poke through a dusty, musty library?" I asked flatly. Do I look at all scholarly, Baurus? Really.

"It'll be good for you," Baurus reached up, ruffling my hair as best he could considering it was pulled back and up. "You go up first, I'll talk with Broad about this idiot," he jerked his chin at the dead agent. "He'd probably guilt trip you into paying up more than you should – he's quite the businessman." Baurus said it as thought it were a compliment.

I wasn't so sure. Makes him sound like a con man. Well…maybe we're both right.

Taking the book I nodded, reclaiming Frostreaver from where it lay on the ground beside me. "All right – it's off to make myself smarter." I'm not much of a bookworm, but what else am I supposed to do?

"Let me know what you find out, if anything. If you need a place to stay while you're here, talk to Broad, he knows the drill." Baurus assured me. "I'll let him know."

"Right," nodding I turned, trotting up the stairs. Broad didn't say a word as I left the inn, for which I was grateful. I felt even more grateful when I realized I had avoided getting blood spatter all over my clothes. Whoo! That could be hard to explain.

--A--


	23. Chapter 23

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks – all of whom are responsible for the back information in this and the next few chapters. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Go check her work! It's really good!

--A--

Chapter Twenty-Three

--A--

The battlemages proved far more willing to listen to me once I mentioned that 'Baurus sent me' than they ever had before. I'm serious – one of them even walked me into the little study-like parlor in the Mage's Guild's main tower – the entryway to the Arcane University, going so far as to make sure I was settled comfortably before wandering off to find Tar-Meena. The air around the university hummed with the vague sense of too much magicka spread across a relatively small amount of space, a friendly prickle in my skin which, as with a change in temperature, one simply gets used to.

Tar-Meena entered a few moments later, carrying a sack of books that didn't look like they had anything to do with a Daedric cult, mumbling about idiots not putting things back where they belonged. In fact, I think I recognize the one on top as Quill-Weave's '_Red Crater'_. I hate that book, much preferring Casta Scribonia's '_Ill Omen'_. Not that I don't like Quill-Weave's work, it's just this one's not her best.

"Here," I took the top several books, enabling Tar-Meena to see past the stack.

"Oh, my…who are you?" her orange Argonian eyes riveted on my face, she blinked, clearly not expecting me. Fortunately for our toes, she didn't drop the books. I have to admit, I did worry about that.

"Ailirah." I answered with blank surprise.

"Oh – and, ah…don't think me rude but why are you here? You don't look like a mage." She frowned, setting her books on a table.

I set the ones I was holding nearby her stack, so she wouldn't lose track of them – a realistic danger, I think. She strikes me as a little absent minded. "I'm not. Baurus sent me…"

"Oh, how is Baurus?" Tar-Meena perked up.

"Well, thank you," I answered, a little off balance. I _would_ get stuck with the not-all-there scholarly sort. "We need some information…"

"Oh do you really?" Tar-Meena's somewhat hunched posture straightened. "I'm very good with information! What exactly are you looking for? Something obscure, I hope. I do like a challenge!" she beamed at me.

"What do you know about the Mythic Dawn?" I asked with a frown. I hope it's easy to find, I get the feeling things will get 'challenging' once we get out of the library. I'd like them to stay easy just a little longer - call me a wimp if you want to.  
Tar-Meena's expression shifted to the Argonian equivalent of surprise. "The Mythic Dawn?Hmm." She began to pace, rendering me unable to sit down. Watching people pace makes me unbelievably edgy, so I perched on the arm of a chair, Frostreaver leaned against the wall, one foot jiggling as I attempted not to fidget more visibly.

Please stop the pacing – you're driving me nuts.

"Well, the Mythic Dawn…" Considering the topic, she massaged her nasal ridge then continued, addressing the room at large, rather than me as an individual. Typical mage. "They're a fairly secretive cult devoted to the Daedra Lord Mehrunes Dagon, the Prince of Destruction, Ambition and Change."

"And?" I prompted when she stopped. I know that much already – where's the part about the Oblivion Gates, the hordes of Daedra overrunning cities, and the assassination of the Tamrielic power structure, then end of the world, you know the _important stuff_?

Come to think of it, Chancellor Ocato better keep his head down – he might very well be next.

"And what? What else do you need to know? It's bad news. Obviously." Sighing she shook her head, an expression indicating that as absentminded as I found her, she found me just as muscle-headed.

So glad we understand each other.

Ignoring this, I held up the book. "So what's this, and what's it about?"

"_Mankar Camoran's Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes_, volume one," she took it, sounding supremely unimpressed, her lip curling slightly as the pages flipped before her eyes. "I must have six of these silly things floating around the Archives," she sighed, immediately checking to see if this copy, too, belonged to the Archives.

Smirking at this, I voiced my next question, which I found more interesting than the book itself. "Who's Mankar Camoran?" Evidently an author, but maybe something more? You never know with these cult writings – the authors tend to have really big egos.

"I'll get you a quill," Tar-Meena offered, as I began looking about for one.

Moving to the table, sitting down to take notes, the Argonian perched across for me, watching me write. I may not fit the scholarly mold, but my handwriting's not bad. Legible – the best I can say of it.

"Well, it's good to see some of you know enough to write things down." Tar-Meena mused, tapping her claws thoughtfully against her jaw.

"I've got so much crap rattling around up here," I tapped my head with my free hand, "there's no point leaving things to chance. Not to mention some fetcher'll probably try to knock the stuffing out of me later, so…best not leave important stuff to chance or faulty memory."

Tar-Meena smiled. "Very good! Very practical! It's so nice when you fighter-types approach these things logically."

Gee, thanks. I'm pretty sure she meant that as a compliment, though. Hmph. People say we Fighters' Guild agents often lack people skills. As compared to _what_, I wonder?

"Now, about _Mankar Camoran_ and the Mythic Dawn," she actually paused here to correct my spelling of the name, necessitating that I cross out the first attempt, which I spelled 'MANKER CAMERON', much to Tar-Meena's amusement.

Okay, so I wasn't paying attention to the book jacket – give me a break. As long as _I_ know who I'm talking about…they're my notes.

"They follow the teachings of Mankar Camoran, who calls for the return of the Mythic Age when Oblivion and the mortal world were not separate. It's the usual Daedric claptrap about the purifying power of Destruction. They hope to bring Mehrunes Dagon to Tamriel and give us all a good Cleansing." Tar-Meena said scornfully.

And apparently the line of emperors was supposed to help keep that from happening – I added a footnote about this observation. "And Camoran?" I asked, looking up from my scribbles. Now that I think about it, I've heard the name before. Probably when I should have paid attention and wasn't, whatever it was about, it's vague. Why does it remind me of trees? "Camoran? Camoran..." biting my lip I looked over at Tar-Meena. "Why does that ring a bell?"

Tar-Meena gaped at me. "You never heard of the Camoran Usurper? Sometimes misnomered as Camoran the Usurper?" She asked, her expression black with shock at my ignorance. "Tried to take over Valenwood...centuries ago...?" She shook her head, as if hoping something might do more than ring a bell. Begin a cascade of understanding, comprehension and looks containing intelligence, more like.

Well, thank goodness I'm going to disappoint her. Or not, depending on how you look at it. "Ah. Him I've heard of...wait, whoa," I'm a little slow on the uptake but... "Are you saying they're_ related_?!" I demanded, thoroughly appalled. This just gets better and better. The vague memory I have of what Camoran the Usurper was famous for was _invasion_. Damn – who knew this shit ran in families?

"It's believed they are." Tar-Meena responded. "Accounts differ, though if you read the book _The Refugees_ it is implied that..."

"Oh _dammit_!"I interrupted, resisting the urge to slam my head against the table a few times_. _"He was a _lich-thing!_" I pay attention to stories with lich-things in them, because – apart from loving a good ghost story - that's what you run a chance of finding in some forgotten musty dungeon! Demi-liches, and skeleton kings and all kinds of undead crap!

"_Supposedly_ a lich – it was never confirmed." Tar-Meena corrected.

"Well, what's that make_ Mankar_?! Oh, we are _really_ in the shit..." How are we supposed to fight a...some kind of monster-lich interracial-merish cross with an army of Daedra and undead...it took more than the Blades to deal with the Camoran Usurper!

And on top of that,_ I hate undead_! Fortunately, I'm good at smashing them, so we're covered. But as for these Daedra...well, practice makes progress and necessity's the greatest teacher. I'd never say it out loud, but safe money is - unless the situation changes - we're in pretty deep.

"I don't know about 'in the shit' just yet," Tar-Meena answered , unperturbed. "But Mankar Camoran is – according to _The Refugees_ - the half-Bosmer child of the Camoran Usurper. He is believed to be part Altmer – as the Camoran usurper was supposedly an Altmer himself, before he underwent his transformation into a lich. Camoran is also the undisputed leader of the Mythic Dawn cult. He wrote the infamous '_Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes_'," she tapped a clawed finger against the book recovered from the dead assassin.

Bottling up my fear, frustration, and shock, I forced myself calm, so I could articulate without the profanities dancing on the tip of my tongue. Maybe I should just get the am all out before I try and be scholarly here? "So what is the '_Mysterium Xerxes'_ and how many _Commentaries_ are there?" I asked, feeling the bile rise. Oh please don't let this be a twenty volume set…

"Mysterium, _Xarxes_," Tar-Meena corrected, eyes narrowed. Oh boy, she's one who likes to have her terminology right.

"Xarxes, sorry," I apologized , genuinely embarrassed this time. I hate looking stupid. "I'm not familiar with it."

"No, of course you're not. No one is," Tar-Meena said, her tone a little warmer, her tail scuffing slightly against the floor, twitching as she thought. "The _Commentaries_ themselves are actually contemporary with Tiber Septim, written over four hundred years ago. ."

Just our luck – this Camoran guy probably _would_ keep himself alive out of sheer spite, just because his little revolution didn't work the first time. Assuming there was a first time, of course. "And the Mysterium Xarxes?" I prompted.

"That's the holy book of the Mythic Dawn. Supposedly it was penned by Mehrunes Dagon himself. _If_ it truly exists, it would be an artifact of great, and evil power." Tar-Meena eyed me with unveiled suspicion. "Why the interest? These sorts of things are considered obscurities at best."

I considered – looks like I'm in the middle of a crash-course in Blade misleading and misdirection. "I'm following a lead," I answered. "You've heard about the Oblivion Gates?"

"Who hasn't?" Tar-Meena shook her head. "It's terrible, and deeply disturbing. Not to mention it's got the whole University in an uproar – Archmage Traven and the faculty are running themselves ragged trying to keep the junior members from riding off to observe the Gates and getting killed."

"You're not the only ones," I shook my head. "We're trying to figure out how such portals are even _possible_. Everything I understand about Daedric magicka says such stable portals are categorically _im_possible. Yet I've already had to close two." I quoted Martin – a mage himself, I suppose he'd know. He knows more about it than I do, anyway.

Tar-Meena looked surprised. "Well, that's certainly disquieting." She answered blandly, as if surprised out of saying something more intelligent. I didn't blame her, though I wasn't sure if the disquiet was caused by my sudden burst of information, the fact the Gates exist, or that I've closed _two_ so far.

"Here's something more disquieting: I need to find their headquarters." I announced.

Tar-Meena chuckled. "Well, lucky for us both I'm used to you Blades' brand of 'official business'. All I can say is 'it's better you than me'. The problem is, no one knows how widespread the cult is, or where their main shrine to Mehrunes Dagon is located. I wasn't joking when I called them secretive. Let me get us some tea – we could be here for a while."

Nodding, I pulled the _Commentaries_ towards me, frowning as I tried to re-read it, to make sense out of the ranting. Maybe if I turn it upside down and cross my eyes. You never know.

Tar-Meena reappeared twenty minutes later, carrying a tea service and a plate of sandwiches. "Here. Where were we?" she asked, setting the tray on the table, before settling back in her chair with a sigh.  
"Finding the Mythic Dawn's secret shrine," I answered, absently taking a sandwich and nibbling on it. Claptrap is right - it gets crazier the more I try to read it. The passage with the term 'Razor-fed' intrigued me, as it read like this:

_Red-drink, Razor-fed, I had glimpsed the path unto the garden… _

Funny place for a capital letter, see?

"It is clear from the text that Mankar Camoran's _Commentaries_ consist of four volumes, but I've only ever seen the first two books." Tar-Meena mused, pouring cold tea for both of us. "As you've noticed, they're the writings of a fanatic. I believe that Camoran's writings contain hidden clues to the location of the Mythic Dawn's secret shrine to Mehrunes Dagon."

"You've researched this before?" I asked, looking up, uncrossing my eyes as I did so. No luck with that, though admittedly, the book was still right-side up.

"Of course! But without the other two volumes, I couldn't exactly get very far, you know," Tar-Meena declared with some disgust – more with the fact that her research fizzled than my question. "You see, these sorts of cults tend to be categorically fond of the 'walk the path' line of reason. Namely, those who unlock the hidden path prove themselves worthy to join the ranks of the Mythic Dawn. Finding the shrine is the first test on the road to 'enlightenment'." She pulled a face, indicating her opinion of this so-called enlightenment was quite low. "The Mythic Dawn isn't the only cult with this belief, you know…"

Grinning as she began to ramble about some obscurity I nodded. I agree – if you want to join something, you should know it fairly well…

So what's my excuse for joining the Blades?

Still, if I can make logic work in my favor, great. If not…well, it won't be the first time measured reason failed to get me results. Sometimes you really _do _have to go pound answers out of something_. _

Or someone.

Ask Modryn and Julius – they had to do it, back when the Blackwood Company was causing problems.

"The fact remains, without the other two volumes of the _Commentaries_, you're out of luck." Tar-Meena shook her head, startling me out of my reverie. "I will, however, dig out our copy of Volume Two for you – just please treat it gently."

"Thanks, I will," I answered, only half paying attention as I got to my feet, frowning thoughtfully at my half-finished tea. Sighing, I nodded. There's only one course of action I can take right now. It's not too late in the day, so I should follow whatever leads I've got. "I'm going to go talk to the local book dealers. The _First Edition_ sells rare books." I reasoned.

"True, but I doubt even Phintias could get a hold of the _Commentaries_." Tar-Meena said gently. "They're _that_ rare."

I shrugged. "I've got to start somewhere. Besides, these rare book dealer-types tend to keep an eye on each other's stocks. I've had to retrieve books back and forth from them before. _The_ _First Edition's_ never actually gotten caught stealing books, but, you know..." I shrugged.

If she doesn't, I'm not going to explain. I appreciate books, I simply think these fellows take things a bit far. Fanatics, all of them. If you open the topic of rare books they either snub you as a non-connoisseur, or they start to babble about obscurities and go on for hours about stuff only the die-hard collectors care about. I haven't decided if it's funny or not. They need to get out more.

"Well, it's a start. When you get back, just come straight here, I'll leave word around that you're corroborating with me, it'll speed things up a bit," Tar-Meena offered, apparently glad to find herself immersed in this secret official business, even if only as a consultant.

Hell, it's probably a safer role to fill than the one waiting for the rest of us. That role is, of course _moving target. _But hey – no plan is perfect.

"Thanks. I'll see you." Shaking the Argonian's hand I shouldered Frostreaver and started for the gates of the Arcane University, heading for the Market District.

The sun outside shone lemon-bright, potent and pleasant, a relief after the hot, musty study. Oddly, I hadn't realized _how _hot it was in there, until I was back out in the fresh air. The sort of day where it's hard to imagine someone's plotting the end of the world. I can't see the world continuing if the Mythic Dawn has its way. Unless by 'continue' I decide to mean 'in the way that the Deadlands continue'.

I can see why Mehrunes Dagon would want Tamriel – look around. Trees. Grass. Clean air. Blue sky. No lava rivers, no burning corpses. It's a gorgeous place.

Up above the Imperial City, the White Gold Tower reflected the light, the sun glittering off the windows. I wonder how Chancellor Ocato will take all this, particularly when we, the Blades, let him know about Martin. I wonder how much he's privy to so far. Not much, I'll bet – security issue or something like that. If it were me, I'd let him worry about holding the Empire together while we Blades take on the harder tasks of making sure the crazy shit doesn't spill over and ruin everything.

--A--

Information on the Camoran Usurper was found here: /wiki/Lore:CamoranUsurper#CamoranUsurper.

The information on Mankar Camoran I use is here: /wiki/Oblivion:MankarCamoran

I'm only as good as my information, this is what I'm using. I'm also taking this moment to give credit to the Oblivion Wiki – which provides most of my background information.


	24. Chapter 24

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Twenty-Four

--A--

The bells fastened to the heavy wooden door of _The First Edition_ jingled merrily as I stepped in, a sharp contrast to the shop itself. As the door swung shut, aided by a push from me, the bells clanked again, before silence filled the room up like water into a pitcher.

Despite several large windows, most of them sported paper covers diffusing the sunlight, giving the shop a sort of nostalgic golden ambiance. A rare books dealer once told a patron the reasoning behind this, while I was in earshot. Apparently direct sunlight can damage or fade a book, so they diffuse the light – you can still see, but the books are safe too. It also looks good – I won't argue that.

I felt slightly stifled as I wandered into the silent shop, past tables laden with 'less rare' books, heavy-looking chairs, some of which had books piled up on their cushions, as if pending sorting. Dust lay on the windowsills, even on the rafters, but on none of the other surfaces, especially not on the books.

"Good afternoon!" The proprietor Phintias, a Redguard with a rather cheerful demeanor, strode out from the back room. The odd thing about Phintias is he looked about as close to belonging to a book shop as I do in a ballet. Nowhere near – that is, of course, until he starts talking shop.

Seeing the way he eyed Frostreaver, I leaned it against the front counter with a catlike smile, clearly hinting he should ignore the sword. Guilty conscience, Phintias?

The Redguard nodded slowly. "Well, what can I interest you in today? Errand from the Mages' Guild?" he sounded almost hopeful.

"I'm here to see if you can get a book for me." I answered comfortably, leaning on the counter, watching Phintias' expression of surprise.

I know I don't look like much of a reader.

"I'm afraid I might not carry anything that would interest you – these are all rare books, you know." Phintias announced politely.

"Yeah, I know," I agreed cheerfully, beaming disarmingly at him. "I need a copy of…crap what was it? Mankar Camoran's Mysteri…" Please don't let me mispronounce anything.

"Mankar Camoran's _Commentaries_ on the Mysterium Xarxes," Phintias corrected firmly, frowning at my apparent lack of savvy.

Crap indeed. "Yeah, that's the one. Thank you." I smiled, nodding politely.

Phintias didn't look convinced – though convinced of what I was unsure. "It comes in four volumes. The first two volumes are rare, but you may run across them from time to time. The third and fourth are impossible to find."

Unless you're Tar-Meena, who has six copies of the first volume. If it's so rare, I wonder…well, maybe the Mages' Guild takes a similar stand against Daedric stuff as it does Necromancy.

I actually agree with the crackdown, though perhaps not with the methods. Again – how do you fight what you don't understand? I mean, you could hack it down to little bitty pieces to see if they still try biting or clawing at you….but it's best to find balance, and arm yourself accordingly. "Well, I need volumes three and four," I announced. I wonder if Jauffre will spray steam out of his ears if I send him the bill?

I'm evil that way.

Phintias' eyes rose towards his hairline. "Well, good luck finding volume four, I've never even _seen_ one, and I've been in this business almost twenty-five years now," he remarked, shaking his head. "I _do_, however, happen to have a copy of Volume Three on hand, but I'm afraid it's a special order." He finished with an air of finality – more like an air of 'run along little girl, go hack something up'.

"Really? And how much would the asking price be?" I asked, thought I already suspected that it I was asking the price, the answer was not a number, but 'no'.

Phintias smile tightened slightly. "The book has already paid for by another customer," he repeated firmly and clearly. "So sorry."

I suspected as much. Frowning I considered my options. Namely that it's not an option to give up just yet. "Well, I'd never ask a gentleman such as yourself to sell a specially ordered item if it was already spoken for," I declared slowly, hoping to hit on the right words for the next plan – ambush the buyer and see if I couldn't talk him out of his book. "Could I ask who the buyer is?"

Phintias shrugged, eyeing me.

"I'm not some thug, I'm Fighters' Guild – with an interest in Daedra, and Daedric magicka." I added soothingly.

Phintias looked a little skeptical, but shrugged. "His name is Gwinas. I don't know him personally, but he was quite eager to get his hands on Volume Three of Camoran's _Commentaries_. Came all the way from Valenwood to get it. As a matter of fact," Phintias looked past me towards the water clock ticking on the wall. "He's already late for his appointment to pick up the book."

Perfect. "Do you mind if I wait here?" Folding my hand behind my back I peered at the nearest stack of books.

Phintias shrugged. "Not at all – just please remember if you pick up a book, put it back where it belongs." He smiled, inclining his head before pottering off to see to some obscure book-dealer's business.

Well, it looks like I'm not the only person interested in the Mythic Dawn. I get the feeling when someone goes to the trouble to get a hold of Volume Three of these _Commentaries_, it's probably for the express purpose of _finding_ the Mythic Dawn. I highly doubt these sorts of books sit gathering dust on a shelf – which means Gwinas might even know where to get the fourth volume, since the other three are apparently useless without it.

I'll admit, the idea of pouring over these lunatic ravings is about as appealing as jumping headfirst, buck-naked into the Rumare, looking to battle slaughterfish barehanded.

I'm not going to confirm or deny seeing such a thing done. I simply am not. All I'll say is _if_ someone did it, it wasn't me. I'm a little crazy, not stupid.

The door jingled again as it opened, and a Bosmer came striding in, dressed head to toe in red silk robes. My first instinct was to go for Frostreaver – in easy reach, but with enough separation from my hand to keep Phintias from getting nervous.

The look was a little too reminiscent of the Mythic Dawn's assassins. An expensive reminiscence, but still.

"Phintias?" the Bosmer drawled as Phintias came bustling forward. "Do you have it?" he asked eagerly.

"I do," Phintias produced a book wrapped in purple silk, which he opened on the counter. "Volume Three of Mankar Camoran's Commentaries, as promised."

"Oh, that is _beautiful_!" Gwinas immediately tied the book back up in its wrapping, jittering excitedly. You know, the more I watch, the more I think he's just a fool who thinks he's a scholar. I also think my intervention here might just be an act of mercy – he strikes me as the sort who very easily gets in over his head, then panics when he realizes with what sort of people he's keeping company. _If_ they don't kill him first. I'm definitely doing a good deed, getting him out of this mess before he gets too far in.

The funny part is he's not much taller than I am, so if _he's_ in over his head, what does that make me, I wonder?

"Thank you, thank you! I can't tell you how long I've been looking for this book!" Gwinas was saying excitedly.

"Not at all. Please, keep us in mind for any future needs." Phintias beamed winningly.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, moving on.

"Gwinas, might I have a word?" I asked pleasantly.

The mer jumped, apparently not having noticed me – or maybe he's a poor student of the theater, you never know with his sort. I don't dislike them, I just have little use for them.

"What do you want?" The suspicious look, the way he clutched the book to his chest evidenced he suspected he knew what I wanted, but wasn't going to help me get to the conclusion.

"I want to ask you about Volume…"

"It's not for sale!" The mer spat, worst suspicions confirmed.

"Stay put, Phintias," I warned, though I didn't reach for Frostreaver. Both man and mer stopped as I straightened to my full height – not an impressive feat, but there was something in my tone discouraging argument. This is my mission, my arena, we'll play by my rules. "Fine, it's not for sale. Then perhaps you can tell me…about the Mythic Dawn?" I asked, holding the mer's eyes.

Gwinas' expression slowly widened, so his mouth and eyes formed 'O's. "The…the Mythic Dawn? Are you…" Am I who? "I mean, I don't know what you're talking about! I don't know anything about any cults." He proclaimed a little too loudly.

"Don't lie to me, Gwinas. I don't like it when people lie – it isn't _nice_." I answered calmly. "I'll be blunt," probably a good idea, he might miss the point otherwise, "you're in over your head. You have _no concept_ of what's going on here…"

As expected, Gwinas' temper flared at this statement of fact. I intend for him to get rankled – people don't think clearly when they're mad, giving even me a noticeable advantage – so says Julius, he's completely right. This guy has no follow through – I'm doing him a favor. "I beg your pardon, young woman? You presume to tell _me_ about Daedric cults?"

"Sure. Trust me – these are not the sort of bastards…" Fuel on the fire. You know, that vein in his forehead looks like one of those Black Marsh snakes - the huge ones I thought lurked under my bed when I was a kid. I hate snakes.

Gwinas straightened up, puffing his chest out like an indignant owl. "Madam, I'll have you know that I've visited the Shrine of Sheogorath during the Festival of the Mad!"

Yeah, Markos got _chased_ by that lot once. Something about a tomato, a skein of yarn and wanting his hat. He used to wear this really stupid hat – I guess they through he was one of them, and not playing by the rules.

"I've spoken with Hermaeus Mora beneath the full moons! I've…"

I grabbed the mer by the front of the robes and hauled him forward, losing patience with his self-righteously indignant proclamations. "You complete _ass_!" I roared angrily, startling everyone in the building. Scholars – they're smart but they're so _dumb_. I felt heat course through me, a sure sign of temper.

Phintias, who some time ago abandoned the attempts at ignoring Gwinas and I, now looked torn between intimidation by me and worry for a client. When I yelled he jumped, dropping whatever he'd used to occupy himself. Dragging Gwinas to my eye level I glared at him. "They killed the Emperor you fool! Think about _that_!" I gave him a shake when he tried to stagger back, the third volume of the _Commentaries_ hitting the ground unceremoniously.

"I say!" Phintias explained, though whether he was referring to my treatment of Gwinas – who was now pale and starting to sweat – or of the book, or of my accusation, I don't know.

"I…" Gwinas squeaked.

"_Nchow!" _I spat, the scholar recognized the profanity of what it was, looking shaken at such a vulgar remark. "Think about it, you little toad." Groping on the floor with my foot, I found the book, giving it a firm kick off to the side so Gwinas and I wouldn't trample it. "Maybe you'd better reconsider your situation – because I know a _lot_ of unhappy people in this city who would _love_ to have someone to take out their frustration on. And someone courting the Mythic Dawn's favor fits the bill for a scapegoat _perfectly._"

The color drained from the mer's face as the implications began to sink in.

"_No one_ will care if you're in with them or not – it'll be a thing of convenience. You think _I'm_ bad? I'm small fish by comparison, so be smart about this. Consider dealing with me _now_, rather than _them_ later. It'll be less _painful_." I finished, the words carefully inflected.

Giving him a push, Gwinas slammed into the counter, off balance, pale and sweating, cowering half-sprawled against the wood as I eyed him and Phintias both malevolently.

"What?! The Mythic Dawn were the ones...?" Gwinas looked ready to faint, though his eyes were riveted to my face, as if I'd suddenly sprouted extra heads.

See? Public service. I'm a full-on philanthropist.

"I-I swear I didn't know! You have to believe me! I mean, I knew they were a Daedric cult…" Gwinas began to jabber, while Phintias looked absolutely appalled, finally more appalled by Gwinas than by my behavior. "Mankar Camoran's views on Mehrunes Dagon are fascinating, _revolutionary_ even…"

"Revolutionary my ass!" I barked.

Gwinas didn't give any indication he heard me. "But to murder the Emperor…Mara preserve us! Take it!" he looked at the book on the floor, shuddered, then tried to bolt.

Unfortunately, to leave he had to pass me.

I reached out, easily grabbing the back of his robes, almost lazily, smirking as he choked when the fabric refused to give, pulling suddenly taut. Back to basics. "Uh-uh. Not so fast. You nearly got into the deep shit, I pulled you out. So you're going to answer a couple questions for me, so I can mop the shit up, you got it?" I asked casually. Mmm. I shouldn't let myself get so wound up – the headaches are killer.

Gwinas looked like he was debating a bolt for the door.

"Don't be stupid." I warned. "Now. The fourth volume - how do I get one? I'm assuming you know."

"Well…well, you can only get Volume Four directly from a member of the Mythic Dawn. In a meeting set up with the Sponsor, as he called himself." Gwinas answered shakily.

"All right," I expected as much, if what Tar-Meena says about their being a secretive cult. I don't think Gwinas has the capacity to lie when the pressure's on like this. Too bad – because I'm not even wearing my 'Bitchy Badass' hat. "Who. When. Where?"

"Here, take this note they gave me. It tells you where to go. I don't want anything else to do with the Mythic Dawn." Gwinas fumbled in the sleeve of his robe and produced an innocuous looking piece of paper, which he hand to me. Still keeping him in my peripheral vision, lest he try to sneak off, I skimmed over the note.

_Gwinas,_

_Your interest in the writings of the Master has been noted. You are taking the first steps towards true enlightenment. Persevere, and you may yet join the exalted ranks of the Chosen._

_If you wish to continue further down the Path of Dawn, you will need the fourth volume of the Master's "Commentaries on the Mysterium Xarxes." It can be obtained only from a member of the Order of the Mythic Dawn. As your designated Sponsor, I will pass on my copy to you if I deem you worthy._

_Study the first three volumes of the Master's writings. Look for the hidden meaning in his words, as best as you are able._

_When you are ready, come to the Sunken Sewers under the Elven Gardens in the Imperial City. Come alone. Follow the main tunnel until you reach the room with the table and chair. Sit down. I will meet you there and give you what you desire._

_The Sponsor_

"This is all you know?" I asked, looking up at Gwinas.

He nodded.

"Are you _sure_?" I glared at him.

The Bosmer clenched his teeth, as if trying not to throw up, nodding again.

"All right, get out of here," I moved so I no longer blocked his progress, pretending to give my whole attention to the note. Baurus will want to see this, Tar-Meena as well.

Gwinas made good his opportunity to retreat, as if fearing I might change my mind and grill him some more.

"What the hell was _that_?" Phintias shouted, once the door was closed.

"A _slug_," I answered mildly, knowing full well Gwinas was not the object of Phintias' question. Looking up at the irate-because-he-was-unnerved Redguard, I smiled winningly. Phintias looked ready to start screaming for the City Watch. "It's business, Phintias. You know how the rare books business is."

Okay, so it's close to blackmail. Phintias looked indignant. "Are you accusing me of marketing stolen books?" he asked testily.

"I'm simply saying this was a favor to a stranger, they'd have killed him eventually. Well, I have to go." I finished cheerfully, despite the pressure behind my eyes.

"I'll be speaking to the guild about you," Phintias growled. "Strong-arming people in my shop!" Understandably, he can't endorse this behavior, whatever my reasons. I consider this as part of the category 'necessary posturing'.

"I think I ought to warn you, I'm not on the Guild's payroll right now, so there's not much they could do. I'm sort of…freelance." I smiled. "Good day, Phintias. Sorry about all the noise," I announced cheerfully, leaning over to pick up the commentaries, then gathered up Frostreaver.

Sometimes I love my job.

--A--


	25. Chapter 25

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Twenty-Five

--A--

I did not like carrying Volume Three of the _Commentaries_ around. It made me feel incredibly paranoid. I kept checking over my shoulder to make sure no one was following me – and apparently no one was. However, I couldn't quite shake the nasty suspicion of eyes boring into my back.

True to her word, all I had to do was show up, tell the battlemage on duty I was looking for Tar-Meena, and I was promptly escorted back to the little study, Tar-Meena herself arriving a few minutes later. The battlemage only escorted me when I confessed I wasn't sure how to find the place again, and the man displayed a sort of benign tolerance for my lack of path finding abilities.

Smirking at the researcher, I held up the book. "Look what I found!" I trilled pleasantly. I am so glad to be back here – it seems to me one would have to be pretty stupid to attack the Arcane University. If I were them, I'd wait for me to leave.

Of course, I if were them, I'd have ambushed me on the way to Cloud Ruler Temple, killed me, killed Martin, kill Jauffre, and then opened an Oblivion Gate right outside the Temple complex's main gate. Good thing I'm one of the good guys, huh?

The Argonian's expression widened into a look of profound shock. "That's…you really got…?"

"Absolutely, and when this is all over it's _yours_," I handed her the book. Goodness knows I don't want them in my library. "Now, I've got to find Baurus." If I don't update him at this point, I imagine he'll be a little annoyed with me – particularly as I'm preparing for a meeting with the bastards responsible for a lot of crap, not to mention every headache I've had this past month or so.

The bad hoodoo is about to get interrupted.

"I'll study these, see if I can turn anything up," Tar-Meena announced, with the air of volunteering for an arduous task. "No guarantees, you understand but…" she waved a clawed hand expressively.

Chuckling to myself – it's obvious she really wants a chance to look at Volume Three undisturbed and uninterrupted – I nodded, withdrawing, turning my feet back towards Luther Broad's Boarding House. There's no specific date or time in the note listed for me to go meet this Sponsor person. It's also getting late in the day. I wonder if Baurus is going to drag us to this meeting tonight. I'll bet he is – here I was hoping for dinner and some time to rest. It is too much to ask, really?

Well, the former I can get easily, I suppose, I'll just order before I start talking to Baurus. The latter…well, welcome to the Blades, right? No one ever said it would be easy.

--A--

"Back again – with that frogsticker of yours, I see," Luther Broad greeted me, looking surly, but not exactly angry. I suspect this is his way of telling people 'I'm not with the Blades, I just rent them rooms'. Smart move, I suppose. If I were the average citizen, I wouldn't want this kind of trouble breathing down my neck. However, as a Blade and a member of the Guild, I can't complain, even when the bad shit _does_ start breathing down my neck. I'm hip-deep already, what's a little more?

"Yeah, me and my frogsticker," I nodded. "I need a meal and a room. Evening!" I waved cheerfully at Baurus, contriving to look mildly abashed, but pleased to see him. The show is, of course, for the benefit of anyone outside Baurus, Broad, and myself.

"Still with him, are you?" Luther grunted, shaking his head. "Third room on the left." He handed me a key. I highly suspect the third room on the left is usually reserved for Blades.

"Thanks, now about dinner…" ordering, I caught Baurus' eye then flicked mine towards the stairs.

_Follow me._

Baurus actually wound up bringing supper upstairs for the both of us. I'd gotten whole mouthful before he asked, "Well?" impatiently, unable to wait any longer. I suppose it's stressful, sitting around while someone else does the legwork, then again, it was his idea.

"Well what?" I asked cheekily around a bite of bread and cheese.

Baurus scowled.

"I'm hungry – give me a minute," I took a swig of my ale – good stuff! – waiting until I'd taken the edge off my appetite before wiping my mouth and frowning at Baurus. "It's been a long day, and I didn't get lunch," I declared before cutting up my lamb. "Tar-Meena has the first three volumes of the _Commentaries_, that book we took off the dead guy." I narrated between bites. Thank goodness Baurus doesn't seem to expect perfect table manners. "She's looking over them now. I'm supposed to meet the Sponsor later to get the fourth volume. Supposedly all the clues we need to find the hidden shrine are in there."

"That's it?" Baurus looked both excited and a little disappointed.

"No." Fishing in my pocket, I pulled out Gwinas' note then handed it over. "Tar-Meena's given me temporary access to the Tower, so we can corroborate on this. Problem is, Frostreaver and I aren't exactly obscure faces," I cast the weapon, lying on the bed, a fond look. I'd so love to get a few hours of sleep before we do anything heroic, spy-like or dangerous. "And I'm not much for undercover work."

It's the red hair. Couple that with a big sword, and I'll be very surprised if half the Mythic Dawn isn't on the lookout for me. Hmm. Maybe Tar-Meena knows someone who knows someone who can…I don't know. Make me look different. I _could _go back to the axes, but looking at Frostreaver, I don't really want to.

"You'll learn – there's no time listed here, you know that, right?" Baurus announced, looking up, his eyebrows knitting together. I can see the cogs in his head turning – '_we can go now, if we hurry'._

I don't want to hurry! I'm still eating, and the food is _good_! "It had occurred to me." I answered dryly. Why do I get the feeling 'you'll learn' means 'sink or swim'? Some days I wonder if I joined the Blades or some kind of Fighters' Guild auxiliary.

"I know where this place is," Baurus announced after pondering the paper a little longer. "We always kind of wondered who used it – now we know. I can't believe they've been crawling around under our noses like this…" Baurus' expression darkened, the creases in his face becoming more apparent.

Under your feet, too, by the sounds of it, though I wisely didn't say this out loud, merely continued eating. Damn I'm hungry – too hungry to be cheeky. "I suppose suggesting we wait until tomorrow is going to earn me a look…yeah, that's the one. Good thing I didn't actually suggest it," I sighed as Baurus gave me the classic 'what sort of Blade _are_ you?!' look.

Ignoring this, I sighed again, poking at my lamb. You know...it's not as good now as it was a moment ago.

"Well, recognizable or not, you're not going." Baurus announced simply.

My fork clanged against my plate as I slammed it down, my temper flaring unexpectedly as I looked up quickly to scowl reproachfully at Baurus. "_Excuse m_e – this is _my_ mission too!" I snapped, stung by the injustice of the whole 'stay behind' plan.

"I don't think so – there's no _sense_ in both of us going. Stick with Tar-Meena and I'll bring the fourth volume to…" Baurus tried to logic with me, however I wasn't of a mood to listen to _logic_.

"Bullshit! I'm not going for that. Don't even try to tell me 'it'll be dangerous' or I'm going to knock out your _teeth,_" I snarled, perfectly serious. "You think they won't recognize _you_, Mr. 'I've Got A Tail, Cover My Back For Me'?" Damn, that's a weak argument. Even _I_ could come up with better.

It was Baurus' turn to glower. "I didn't say it was a great plan..."

"'Cause it's _not_!"I shook my head, poking my lamb with my fork, but not paying it much attention otherwise, too annoyed. I think what really bothers me is knowing this isn't really a dismissal of my abilities. He just doesn't want all his eggs in one basket. Well, sometimes you can't avoid it.

"It's a piss-poor plan and you know it!" I snapped. "Plus, if I'm not there, who's watching your back? You'll be _dead _before you can tell _anyone_ what you find out – if you find out anything – and I'll _still_ have to go do this! How's _that_ for staying serious? We don't have the time to waste on a flubbed mission." I stated forcefully, pointing at him with my fork, as though I wished to impale him with it.

"Fine, if you're going to pitch a fit..." But he looked oddly…well, odd. Almost reassured I was protesting the 'logical choice' so hard. Why do I get the feeling he didn't really want to go down there by himself? Ugh – why can't people just dispatch the weird logic and just be smart?

"You're damn right I am!" Chomping on a piece of lamb I forced my temper to subside, wondering vaguely hwy it had flared up so quickly. I know I'm loud, but his is a little unusual. Oh well - not the first time it's happened, I'm sure. "I thought you people were about teamwork." I grunted.

"'You people'? Doesn't sound like a team mindset to me." Baurus announced dryly.

"Well, you do what you learn," I retorted. "And so far, I don't feel like a part of your team, Baurus." I looked up, mild sullen resentment coloring my features.

Baurus and I subsided into sour thought. I know why he's so wound up – this is a chance for him to hit back at the Mythic Dawn, and I don't blame him for wanting to take it. I blame him for letting his emotions override his ass, as Markos says.

Or maybe that's me. Yeah, that actually sounds like me right now – maybe I ought to cut Baurus some slack.

Ugh – he's a big boy for crying out loud.

In the guild we try not to let people with personal stakes in a mission _go_ on said mission. In the guild, Baurus would not be here, and this whole macho 'it's my thing, let me handle it' attitude is why. It gets people killed – he should know that.

"So, when do you want to go?" Baurus asked quietly, once we both finished our meals, and were scowling at the table again.

"Might as well go now – I'm only going to get more tired. Been on my feet half the day, and on my ass the other half." I grunted. If you think pouring over fanatic writings is easy, I suggest you try it sometime. Try something for Sanguine or Sheogorath – they're both crazy, after a fashion. It really does make just as much sense upside down as right side up.

Getting to our feet, I gathered the dishes. "Get your stuff, I'll wait for you downstairs." I offered, taking the dishes and Frostreaver with me. Better watch my unprotected hide – I'm not exactly dressed for a big fight. However, I'm confident in my ability to avoid _major_ damage.

I only hope I'm right.

--A--

The long walk to the sewers was virtually silent, punctuated when Baurus wanted to light a torch to keep ups from stumbling about in the dark. He eventually conceded my magelight – red – had a definite advantage over the torch.

Wading shin-deep in water, rats and mud crabs is rarely pleasant. This was no exception, though oddly appropriate, considering the type of scum we were trying to find. I mean, really – it's a little clichéd, secret cult meetings in the sewers of the Imperial City?

Oh, for all those people who think there are trolls in the sewers, think again. Goblins, sure – but not trolls. So says the eyewitness.

"So, we got a plan yet?" I asked uncomfortably as Baurus finally slowed down his pace, leading me to believe we were closing on our destination.

Baurus stopped. "We're almost there now – it's just in the room after that one," he pointed, his professional mentality back in place, meaning any argument we might have was still sitting at the table at Luther's place. "Listen, I might not come out off this alive..."

"Don't say that, you'll be fine. _I've_ got your back, remember?" My attempt at a peace gesture. It's smart to prepare for the worst, but there's no need to agonize over it. It's a little late for that.

Baurus sighed, apparently deciding this was no time to correct the idealist. "Doesn't matter, so long as you get out of here alive, with the book. You've _got_ to get the book, and find the Amulet of Kings."

I didn't argue. This isn't the time, or the place, truth be told, never mind that he's absolutely right. "All right, let's do this. As a _team_."

Baurus actually grinned wryly. "You sure you're not just _faking_ the whole rookie thing?" he asked.

"It does seem to come and go, doesn't it? So, you want to tell me the plan now, or is it one of those 'take it as it comes' things? I should warn you – I hate those kinds of plans. They _never_ work," I held up a finger. Truthfully, they never work when Brutus (the king of bad planning) suggests them – mostly the rest of us roll our eyes and come up with something better.

I miss the group dungeon-diving expeditions. "So…you want to meet the Sponsor?" I predicted.

"It should be me," Baurus nodded grimly, "I have a blood debt to repay these Mythic Dawn assassins. Besides, I've trained for this kind of thing my whole life."

"Gee, thanks." I answered flatly.

"Not saying that hunk of junk is just for show, of course." He added, seeing the look on my face, across between distaste and annoyance.

Yet, I grinned at the joke – we'll discuss my non-rookie-ness later. "You bet your ass."

Baurus chuckled. "Listen – there's a sort of catwalk up above the room where this meeting's supposed to take place…"

"I'll be up there. What if one of us gets cornered?" Practicality first.

Baurus actually grinned. "Then…I guess we'll just do things your way."

"My way? What, kick down the door then kick all asses?" I arched my eyebrows. I like that plan – let's run with it.

"Perfect, off you go." Baurus gave me a slap over the shoulder.

I returned the gesture and trotted forward, shoes squishing slightly, leaving faint footprints on the stone. Plunging myself into darkness, I release my magelight, surprised at how quickly my vision seemed to adjust to the near pitch-blackness. I didn't realize the dim lights down here had that much range.

Still, not one to dismiss a good thing out of hand, I opened the gate-like door and closed it, leaning back against it, Frostreaver held at an angle. In the darkness, someone down in the little room below would find it hard to see me, particularly since I _just_ fit inside the doorframe.

Baurus walked into view, just past the stone catwalk, sitting down, apparently resisting the urge to look around for me. Butterflies started in my stomach. If something goes back, it's going to be a trick to get _down_ to where Baurus is, without jumping. So guess what? I get to jump.

Still, if _I_ run into trouble, this is the perfect place for it – narrow walk, me with my great big sword – it's good setup for a fight. I might actually have a decisive advantage – plus, if someone were to trip and fall, they might land wrong and put themselves out of my misery.

See? Positive thinking helps.

A few moments later footsteps entered the room below, Baurus' head turning to observe the newcomer, who remained out of my range of vision. "So. You want to become one of the Chosen of Mehrunes Dagon." He announced, sounding rather disapproving. "The Path of Dawn is difficult. But the rewards are great."

More footsteps. A thrill of horror ran through my stomach – through the passage facing me bobbed a red light, a mage's light…heading my way. My grip on Frostreaver tightened as I shifted my footing slightly. We're so caught. Good thing we planned for something like that.

"I have the book you seek. With it and the Master's three other books, you will possess the key to enlightenment…"

The gate opened, the two Mythic Dawn members in the corridor finally looked away from each other, stopping short as they realized I was here. "Raven!" One of them shouted.

I jumped forward before his voice died. With a grunt I drove Frostreaver into the first cultist, throwing him mercilessly over the edge of the catwalk. I heard him hit the table, shattering it to splinters, as his companion conjured up that funny-looking armor, as well as that formidable mace, swinging viciously at me.

I felt the impact up to my elbows as I caught the blow, shifting Frostreaver, trying to ruin the cultist's balance. Below the sounds of a fight exploded in the wake of the fallen cultist, shouts from most involved echoing, reverberating deafeningly on the walls.

I shouted, my opponent's mace skipping along one of Frostreaver's blades as I spun towards him, the other blade scoring the cultist's chest before I twirled, ever mindful of my footing. Frostreaver sliced into the breastplate again, and I backed around for another strike, which knocked the cultist from the narrow walkway.

Looking below Baurus was cornered. The drop was lower than I expected, but it won't be painless.

"Shit!" I yelped, throwing myself to the ground as a well-placed fireball scorched the air above, showering me in sparks and cinders, right where my head would have been if I hadn't dropped so quickly.

Draped across the catwalk, Frostreaver dangling from one hand, struggling, unable to get myself back up onto the catwalk, half-afraid to just drop into what might as well be a void of nothing. Craaap. Shifting I slipped, then let gravity do its work, landing in a heap, Frostreaver held out to one side. Before I could struggle to my feet red robes swept into view, a lightly shod foot stamping down on Frostreaver's blade.

Looking up, I grinned. You idiot…I twitched Frostreaver, the blade rocking so instead of standing safely on the flat, the cultist founds his foot sinking into the sharp metal, frost blossoming spectacularly. As he moved to get his foot off the blade, screaming in pain, I yanked on Frostreaver, which sliced through his foot until foot and blade parted company, my knuckled scraping the stone, protesting the discomfort it took to force the blade to move.

I was on my feet before the cultist could do more than glare malevolently at me. With a strong swing, his head and shoulders parted company, a sluggish gush of blood issuing from the frosted-over wounds.

"'Lirah!" Baurus shouted.

Throwing myself to the left, I hit the ground, rolling as best I could with Frostreaver still in my hand.

Baurus swung his katana at the mage, the same mage who nearly made a crispy critter out of me earlier – I recognize his magicka signature. It's moldy and musty – just all around nasty.

He pivoted, sending a fireball my way to keep me from coming up on his blindside.

Our best bet is to get him into a corner, try to take away his means of getting away…but how to tell Baurus, without telling this asshole too?

I dodged another fireball as the cultist laughed. "So – this is the 'hero' I've heard so..." he stopped midsentence.

While planning to taunt me, he turned his back on Baurus, who silently took advantage of the mer's distraction. I strode forward, gathering momentum, spinning Frostreaver.

"What's all this about…you collect heads or something?" Baurus asked, stopping the head's ungainly roll with his foot, as if it were a ball.

"I like to make sure shit doesn't get up after I've killed it," I panted. My vest and blouse both bore burn marks and little holes, evidence of the magical fire. I shudder to think what this stuff would have done to my skin…

"On the upside," I walked over to the ruined table, nudging a dead cultist off the wreckage with my foot, picking up the battered copy of Volume Four. "He who lives to walk way…"

"Lives to die another day," Baurus finished with a nervous chuckle, which I returned.

It's the strangest thing, but most people wind up with the nervous giggles, once they're out of a tight spot.

"Well…now what?" I asked, frowning at the book. It didn't tingle, or buzz malevolently. in fact, it's disappointingly mundane. I was expecting something a little more…evil. "You gonna quit treating me like a rookie?"

Baurus laughed. "Not likely – I'll quit calling you 'amateur' behind your back, though," he joked.

--A--


	26. Chapter 26

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Twenty-Six

--A--

"You look like something the cat dragged in," Luther greeted me.

Giving him a baleful look, I resisted the minor spiteful urge to drag Frostreaver across his precious gleaming floors. "Ugh." I enunciated matter of factly.

Luther chuckled. "That good, eh?"

"Could be worse. Is there a way to get a bath sent up?" I asked hopefully.

"I'll see to it."

"Great…I could use one…" Good thing we weren't in the really nasty sewers. Still – the ones we were in were bad enough.

"Don't mind me asking – but why do you have swampweed growing out of your shoe?"

"Huh? Dammit!" I winced, plucking the trailing weed from its place, lodged between my shoe and heel. "Oh, that's nasty," I groaned, setting the weed on Luther's bar – which made him grimace. "You don't want to know."

"No, I guess I don't…" he leaned forward. "You didn't go sewer scouring, did you?"

Giving him a 'don't ask' look I snorted. "I still need that bath." With this cheerful remark I dragged myself up the stairs, wincing as I went. my ribs and stomach ached from dangling across that catwalk, I'd twisted something in my wrist when I'd sliced into that cultist's foot, and I generally felt pretty low.

The bath and water were sent up a few minutes later, in the care of a housekeeper with some magicka, for she cast an ice spell to fill the bath and a fire spell to heat it before leaving a big block of soap for me, and instructions on where to leave my clothes, should I want them laundered.

Sinking into the hot water, I noticed brilliant purple bruises forming in straight lines across my torso, particularly on my ribs. Well, at least no one will ever see them. The hot water worked marvelously quickly, soothing stiff muscles. The lavender soap helped, too. Lavender is such a soothing scent, by the time I was done soaping up and rinsing off, I was ready to sleep for a month.

Once the bath was taken – and my filthy clothes as well – I lay Frostreaver on the floor, in easy reach of my bed before settling back against the pillows.

Baurus'll be well on his way back to Cloud Ruler Temple. He felt it prudent, hoping my involvement might be underestimated, with the amount of time it looked like I faced studying at the Arcane University. Also, he hoped trouble might follow him instead of me – assuming, of course, the senior member heading back to headquarters would know something, have something, or simply make a better target.

He'd better not talk bad about me behind my back.

I'll bet Martin has half the Blades tripping over themselves to help him improve as a swordsman…all that effort just to beat little old me…

Yeah, he can keep dreaming…I'm not gonna let _that_ happen…

--A--

Only exhaustion kept me from feeling any discomfort as I slept, as a result of the _Commentaries_, lying under my bed. By the time nine o'clock rolled around – mages like to sleep in, from what I understand – I couldn't bear to keep the damnable book in the same unguarded room as myself. Taking Frostreaver and the book, I bid Luther good morning before heading straight for the Arcane University, straight to the little study Tar-Meena and I used when I was here.

Tar-Meena was already awake, or rather, she was up and dressed, dozing in an armchair.

"Tar-Meena."

The Argonian jerked awake, rubbing her eyes and smacking her lisp sleepily. "Oh, there you are. Good morning…" she trailed off as I held out the book. "Oh my, what happened to it?" she blinked, taking the book almost reverently.

"The last owner didn't like me much," I answered blandly, throwing myself into one of the chairs, pulling a copy of Volume One towards myself. I noticed Tar-Meena had fished out a second copy. Yawning I reread the first few paragraphs as Tar-Meena began pouring over Volume Four, turning the pages delicately, as if afraid to muss or rumple them.

"No, I imagine not." The words sounded completely random, until I realized she was responding to my previous remark, so engrossed in the study of this unfamiliar book that her awareness of the situation ran a few minutes behind the situation itself.

Shrugging, I settled back in the chair. Stiff and sore, I truly appreciated the comfortable chairs. After about ten minutes of reading this lunacy, I marked my place with a finger. "Tar-Meena?"

"Yes dear?" she asked absently, turning a page, eyes still moving side to side.

"What are all these razor references?" I continued to scowl at the page, picking out the words, counting up occurrences. It sort of makes me wish I were more of a scholar, but we're not all bookworms in this life, I suppose.

"Hmm?"

I don't have her attention. "Tar-Meena." I repeated gently, looking at the engrossed Argonian with mild amusement. Maybe the reason I never turned out as much of a scholar is simply a lack of patience. Or perhaps, a lack of interest in topics without practical application.

"What?" she blinked owlishly, a great trick for an Argonian. "I'm sorry?" _Now_ I've got her attention, and the absent-mindedness made me grin.

"Razor references, look," I tapped the page before handing over Volume One. "Then here," I pointed as she set the book flat, "then again here." My finger slid across the page, followed by Tar-Meena's orange eyes.

"Hmm. It could be just a nice way of speaking…" Tar-Meena suggested blandly, a little too blandly, if you ask me.

"Then why capitalize them? These two aren't titles, even if this one might be," I argued. Why indeed?

Tar-Meena gave a raspy laugh, shaking her head. "You've got good eyes. Are you sure you're not a scholar, _way_ deep down?" before I could answer 'no, I'm pretty sure I'm not,' she shook her head again, massaging her nasal ridge. "Do you know what the artifact most commonly associated with Mehrunes Dagon is?" she asked neutrally.

Considering hard, I fumbled through my negligible knowledge of aspects Daedric. "Um…is it a razor?" I asked, hopefully.

Tar-Meena chuckled. "Indeed, Mehrunes' Razor – a powerful artifact in and of itself, quite evil by all accounts, but the artifact was lost."

"What's it do?" I frowned. Nothing good, I'll bet. Why can't Daedric princes have, I don't know, relics like staves that summon cute little squirrels or something? Or little spaniels or something like that?

"Well, supposedly it was meant as a weapon." Yes, I sort of figured that out. "And some accounts indicate it had powers to…change things that it struck. Poisoned undoubtedly. The artifacts tend to resemble the Daedra to whom it belongs, or at least, to remind the mortal carrier of same," Tar-Meena answered so stuffily, I felt sure she was quoting something.

"What happened to it?" Daedric artifacts, my scanty knowledge tells me, appear and disappear seemingly at a whim. I'm not sure which I'd prefer: to have this Razor lost, or have it found. I see too many problems with either outcome.

Tar-Meena considered a moment before answering, eyes half-closed, like a lizard in the sun. "Well, no one is really certain. Some say the most recent surfacing of it was with the Nerevarine, who supposedly destroyed it. Others say the Nerevarine never had it, or it was simply lost after serving its role in those events. Of course, all these rumors are almost all unsubstantiated – Daedric things are so hard to keep accurate track of."

They would be.

Tar-Meena, finally having a relevant topic and an interested (more or less) audience, continued to lecture. "These hero-types rarely say what happens to any evil object that comes into their possession, either because they don't want the world to know what they had to do to get it, to because they don't want anyone else knowing where to find it. Hero convention – according to some writings – indicated these dark artifacts, when in the hands of a Hero, serve the hero's will, then the hero hides it, so no one evil hand can find it. Therefore, the hiding place changes, never staying the same for more than a few centuries. These sorts of things, we can reliably say, _want_ to be found. Particularly the artifacts on the blacker side of gray, as we sometimes say. They can wreak much damage in human hands, particularly if one is not strong of will and moral fortitude," Tar-Meena finished dryly.

"Meaning? What, it's just…lost?" I frowned, trying desperately to digest all the information, knowing I'd probably forget half of it. My brain's starting to feel all wrung-out. I don't know what's worse, the idea of this Razor, of the idea of it _lost_.

Tar-Meena shifted uncomfortably.

"What? Tell me." An icy feeling, like a pitcher of cold water siphoned into my stomach made me tremble. "Tar-Meena…what if the Mythic Dawn got a hold of that Razor? You don't think they could…"

"Well, there are rumors. Only ever rumors. Sometimes I think these hero-types are idealistic enough to think they can hide a Daedric artifact from its master – but that's naive in the extreme. Umbra, the sword, is a wonderful example, if not exactly pertinent to our discussion, as it's not a true Daedric artifact."

Wait, what? No – _huh_? She's doing that mage's rambling thing – how do you stop these people?!

"As I've said, these things want to be found – the darker the heart who wields it, or the more foolish the mind, the stronger the call." Tar-Meena declared, though there was something in her tone and expression that worried me even more. If she's trying to say she doesn't know smooth about it, I don't believe her. Even _I'm_ a better liar than that.

"What if they found it?" I asked.

"It would be…_bad_." The mage eyed me closely, as if aware I was in the process of getting spectacularly _lost_. "This conversation doesn't go further than this room," she warned, and then magically sealed the room off, ensuring no one could overhear us. "There are rumors that the Razor has…resurfaced. You should know, Daedric artifacts, like the Razor, Azura's Star, the Wabbajack, melt in and out of our world. Sometimes the gaps span centuries, sometimes only a few years. Usually these things appear in the hands of great heroes or the darkest of villains. History is punctuated with men, mer and these artifacts. I've already told you this."

Thanks for the paraphrase, I'm not being sarcastic.

Settling down, my mind beginning to clear a little, I frowned at Tar-Meena. "So…what do you know? Tell me?" I made it a request, feeling the uncomfortable creep of worry. What if _they_ heard the same rumors…I don't know if I'd like to test poor Frostreaver against something like Mehrunes Razor. On the other hand, I'd love to see what it'd do to his plans for world domination – punch them full of holes, no doubt.

As for its being an evil artifact…better it stay with me than the Mythic Dawn. They'd really put it to bad use.

"The rumors are, there is a hidden shrine to Mehrunes Dagon – you may or may not know, but of all the Daedric shrines in Cyrodiil, his is conspicuously unaccounted for. I don't know if it's the same shrine as the Mythic Dawn might use for their headquarters, but I somehow doubt this is the case. Supposedly, this secret shrine serves as a massive reliquary for the Razor…and a prison for other things." Tar-Meena explained quietly. "It might debunk the theory that the Nerevarine had it, unless the individual felt the best place to hide something was right where someone expects it to be – out in the open. Such things are always open for debate among scholars and theorists." Tar-Mean shook her head.

I shook my head too – it makes perfect sense. Why look for a hat in a hatbox, to use a friend's phrase.

"The place, if it exists at all outside of lore, is rumored to be in or near a place called Sundercliff Watch – we don't know much about it, I'm afraid." She's hinting a tough adventurous sort like me would fit the bill for heading a research trip – research meaning 'kill anything nasty lurking down there, so the scholars can have a clear field'.

"Hmm. I don't like the sound of that…" frowning I shook my head. "Let's worry about finding the Mythic Dawn...once we've done that do you, do you think you could look into these Razor rumors? I really don't want that thing showing up anywhere near where I am, I'll bet it can do all sorts of things I don't want the enemy to be able to do," I began to chew my fingernails in distress, straight down to the quick.

"That sounds like a wise plan of action," Tar-Meena nodded. Her repeated explanation about hidden codes inside the source books went in one ear and straight out the other, though I nodded and said 'mm hmm' whenever she paused.

Mehrunes Razor. He's going to want that back, sooner or later.

Sundercliff Watch – I don't even know where to start looking…but I can't justify making side trip to go looking for this Razor, without something a little more concrete. I mean, Jauffre hasn't forgiven me for traipsing around for a month with the Amulet of Kings in my pocket, just like I haven't quite forgiven him for losing it.

"So, now what?" I sighed.

"Now we start looking for answers," Tar-Meena announced. "I'll go get some tea – I suspect we'll be at this for a while."

I opened the first volume of the _Commentaries_ again. It's _still _the biggest load of horseshit I've ever seen in my life. No, wait, forget that – horseshit at least has a use. You use it in farming. Batshit – there we go, I don't think anyone cares about batshit, except maybe the cute little bats themselves.

I love bats. They're fuzzy, sweet, and they chirp!

Putting the thoughts of pets aside, I skimmed over the book, trying to find hidden clues, meanings, numbers to indicate a heading…turning up nothing.

The sun shifted through the sky, articulating itself in the office Tar-Meena and I shared as the light shifting from one direction to the other. The urge to nap in the warm sunny room grew ever more powerful, causing us one then the other to get up, pace about, to get the blood moving.

Damn fanatics.

--A--


	27. Chapter 27

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Extra-fast update because I'm sure you're all getting sick of the scholar-ing!

--A--

Chapter Twenty-Seven

--A--

"And what _really_ sucks," I announced to Tar-Meena, from where I lay on the floor, my feet up on the chair I had only just vacated, "Is I used to be _so good_ at finding codes when I was a kid. You know how kids do?" I set the _Commentaries_ on my chest, tucking my hands behind my head.

Yesterday yielded absolutely _no_ results, frustrating me to the point I seriously considered going down to the Arena and signing up as a pit dog. However, the smarter part of my brain hinted this wasn't befitting a Blade, aside from which, it wasn't my opponent's fault I was having a bad day, so the idea withered in the bud.

Too bad – I'd prefer a decent fight to playing bookworm. It's _not_ my area of expertise!

Tar-Meena chuckled, shifting restlessly in her chair. The general stodginess of the room did not seem to bother her much - maybe it comes with a homeland made of mostly _swamp_. It _is_ just a little warm in here.

The only good thing I can say about all this, is the weather's gotten cloudy, which detracts from the cloying make-you-feel-stupid sunlight. It doesn't help the room stay cool, but it could get worse. Reaching up, I snapped into my other hand, 'sparking' my magelight and watching the white light fill the room, noting how it's started taking on a rather silvery color, like a star.

I've not practiced as religiously with my magicka as I ought. Forcing the light to turn bright red, then to bright blue I frowned at it, thinking back to childhood, playing games with codes and secret messages. Sitting up abruptly, my light flew up to hover by my shoulder, as if it were sentient, and interested in what I was up to. It's not sentient, of course, but a mage – or even someone with a touch of magicka – can give the appearance of sentience. It's clever puppetry. "Maybe…maybe we're being too clever about this?" I murmured, chewing thoughtfully on my thumbnail. "Tar-Meena? Can I have a piece of paper and a quill?"

Tar-Meena passed both down to me, as I closed my eyes. "Got an idea?" She asked.

"When I was a kid, my brothers and I played this game…it involved secret messages so the Bad People wouldn't find to what we were up to – classic kid's game," I shook my head. "We all had a different code we liked to use…Brutus used to reverse the alphabet, you know, 'a' is 'z'?" My thumbnail came off, tearing as it did so. Moving on to the next fingernail, of furrowed my brows. Ugh, it's been ages since I though about those old games. "Julius…used Daedric runes. He was the bookworm of the five of us…Markos…used numbers, Roge used numbers and the reverse alphabet…" I chewed my fingernail again.

"Do any of those work?" Tar-Meena asked, fumbling for another quill.

"No, the forms are all wrong – you can _tell_ when people use that kind of code." Images from childhood blurred before my eyes, fuzzy from the hazy dust of memory. "I was good at the game, really clever…or so I thought. I used to hide my messages in something I knew they wouldn't want to read. The best girly stuff I could come up with…" I flipped back to the beginning of the _Commentaries_, scribbling. "I used to use a double encoding…the first letter of a paragraph…then one of their methods of coding…well, not Julius', but…" words blossomed from under my pen as I grabbed the second volume, flipping it open, my focus narrowing to a very fine point. "But a grown up's mind is too clever to use such a silly little game. Boy, do I feel _stupid_…he didn't even encode it a second time…just left it, right there in the open…fanatic _bastard!_" I'm not sure if I'm complimenting him or not, either.

Maybe there's something to a non-scholar playing bookworm?

Tar-Meena climbed off her chair, kneeling by my shoulder as I scribbled from the books onto my paper. "It's so simple…how come we never saw it before?"

Because we're trying to be clever. "Distractions," I offered instead, "the ornate letters distract the eyes, hide the truth. Just like any mask." I answered blandly, pulling the third book over, scribbling as if I were under a time limitation. The fourth volume followed suit, disgorging its secret.

Gwinas would never have solved it – fanatics are simple people, their minds clouded, letting their leaders think for them. It makes sense, to use a child's code…amazingly simple, lunatic clever.

"GREEN EMPEROR WAY WHERE TOWER TOUCHES MIDDAY SUN." I frowned at the paper. "Isn't that a street here in the Imperial City?" I twisted uncomfortably to ask Tar-Meena, my magelight tumbling away from my shoulder to hover inches above the paper, as if reading it before moving to orbit around my head, like a bizarre will-o-the-wisp, only benign.

Martin was right – magelights are some of the most whimsical magicka anyone ever practices. I kind of like it.

"Are you familiar with Green Emperor Way?" Tar-Meena asked, copying down the answer – she'll probably write a paper about this later.

Shrugging I climbed back into a chair, putting books, paper, and ink back on the table. "Probably walked long it once or twice," I answered blandly, watching the Argonian's excitement overriding her scholarliness. I actually like Tar-Meena, she waffles like a mage, but isn't as dispassionate and analytical about things as others I've met. I suspect her brand of scholarliness is learned, not inherent, so she doesn't give me 'you're so dumb' looks when she goes over my head.

"The gardens around the Imperial Palace. Something must be revealed there at noon! How exciting!"

"Well, it's too late now, we've missed it," I sighed. "Tell you what – I'll come by here around ten tomorrow, we'll wait, then head over and see what we can find, hmm?" I asked, stretching until my neck and shoulders popped. Ugh, that feels sooooo much better!

I always knew hunching over books like this would ruin a person's posture.

"You'll let me come with you?" Tar-Mean sounded genuinely surprised.

"Sure – you can charbroil anything that attacks us, and two pairs of eyes are better than one. You're not an armchair scholar, are you?" I asked, smirking slightly.

Tar-Meena chuckled. "No, I don't think so. As soon as we're done with them, you can have the books. Goodness knows I don't need them or want them. I've seen enough of these fool things to last me a _lifetime_." Shaking my head, I irreverently gave one of the many books on the floor a nudge with my foot.

Give me the choice between infiltrating a fanatic's headquarters and wading thought all this paper…I'll take the fanatics. Where do I sign up? "Ugh." Getting to my feet I stretched again, eliciting another series of crackles from my spine.

Tar-Meena smirked, rose and twisted, the way only an Argonian can, crackling all up and down her back and – or so it sounded to me – halfway down her tail. "Well, you've got me beat, I'll see you tomorrow."

--A--

"This place," I announced, fluffing my for-once loose hair, "is giving me the creeps." Despite the bright sunlight, the graveyard gave me a feeling of mixed unease and worry. I hope _they_ don't have an agent keeping an eye on this place, though I've checked twice. If we get caught snooping, they'll pack up camp and move somewhere else.

Apparently, though, keeping an eye on it constituted a giveaway – I haven't spotted anyone who looks like they're keeping an eye on anywhere in particular. Which makes me even more nervous. I can't win.

"You perform artifact recovery missions as part of your career…and _this _gives you the creeps?" Tar-Meena asked. I swear, if she'd had eyebrows, they would have gone up. I think she thinks I'm funny – great. Just what I need.

"Yeah well," I peered at a headstone, grimaced, and looked up at the White Gold Tower, thrusting skyward, casting it's long shadow over the city. You know – that thing could almost be the world's biggest sun dial – with the Imperial City laid out the way it is. "Usually dead bodies are in big crypts…hm. That's probably what the Mythic Dawn is counting on, come to think of it. Given the clues we've got.

These people have too much free time.

"Doesn't that ever make you feel like a grave robber?" Tar-Meena asked tripping over something. Those long skirts are ridiculous.

Arguably, so is wearing my hair loose, where it can get in my eyes. Fortunately, I'm not _really _expecting a fight, even if I refuse to leave Frostreaver at the inn. And my hair is still _wet_ - I hate putting it up when it's still wet. Upon returning to the inn last night, I discovered dust had gotten all over me, somehow. The water was gray when I finally got out.

"Grave robber?" Scowling, I stopped walking. "No – I'm not in that business. I dungeon dive, I raid ruins. I am not a grave robber."

"But the ruins are someone else's…" Tar-Meena began, apparently eager for debate on the morality and rationalization of people who dungeon dive for a living. Never mind this is more of a hobby for me, and my primary work is all the more mundane. Pays well, though, until recent weeks.

"Look, Tar-Meena," turning, I gave her a toothy grin, "I know you just want to make conversation, but if you call me a grave robber again," the smile vanished, "I'll _thump_ you. How's _that_ for a Fighter's Guild goon?" Smile was back on.

Tar-Meena gaped at me, then grinned. "All right, I'm sorry," she made a show of holding up her arms in mock fear. Still, I think she'll take the hint. I resent the label 'grave robber'. I'm not.

Hefting Frostreaver onto my other shoulder, we started walking again. It doesn't help we have no idea where to look, past the very vague and cryptic instructions. I'm hoping for something kind of obvious, but Tar-Meena thinks (and deep down, I agree) it'll be something subtle. Otherwise, she'd have made some kind of connection back at the University.

"Doesn't that get _heavy_?" Tar-Meena asked a short while later.

"Only when I've gotta carry it all day," I answered with a shrug. I suppose it _is _pretty creepy out here, especially as its pretty quiet. People don't usually like raising their voices in a graveyard – even I'm not totally free of the lurking fear that something will _wake up._

They usually do in my line of work. Skeletons, zombies, a couple of liches…nasty, nasty stuff. Fortunately, it all breaks, shatters or _splatters_ pretty well, if you've got the right weapon.

Oh, and ghosts - I hate ghosts.

"So why not bind it?" Tar-Meena inquired, seizing on at topic that did not harbor opportunities for me to threaten to 'thump' her again.

"Because I replaced the bindings just…oh…what?" Stopping meandering progress I turned to eye the Argonian. I missed something. Now I look stupid. I hate looking stupid.

Tar-Meena walked up and pinged a claw against the flat of one of Frostreaver's blades. "_Bind_ it – oh. Come now, surely you know about bound weapons and armor?"

"Yeah, I _know_ about it." Who doesn't? "I just didn't think you could do it with…" I should quite while I'm ahead.

"Unconventional weapons?" Tar-Mean supplied, smirking as she flicked her tongue, at the moment lizard like in thoughtfulness. Her orange eyes remained fixed on Frostreaver's blade, glinting in the last of the sun, before the shadow of the White Gold Tower crept over us, as she apparently puzzled over it. I could see an action plan forming behind her scaly features.

"Conventional weapons," I corrected. "I've only ever seen Daedric weapons bound. Same with armor."

"And why do you think that is?" Tar-Meena chuckled, reaching up to absently scratch her brow ridge, finally abandoning her scrutiny of Frostreaver.

"Um…because they kick ass in a fight?" I offered. I never really considered the matter. Come to think of it, the Mythic Dawn used bound weapons and armor…both disappeared after we killed the assassins, trying to get emperor Uriel out.

How come that occurs to me only _now_?

"They're _heavy_. Or cumbersome – too much so to just carry around. Most Dremora don't bother with hauling weapons around by hand – they bind their weapons and their armor and then the artifacts are always on hand- it takes only a second to get to either, and you don't need a verbal component to do it."

"Really?" The shadow seemed to sweep over me, just as the bells in the Temple of the One began to toll. "Noon – what am I looking for?"

"Something weird," Tar-Meena said. "Stay in the shadow – the direction were very specific."

No they weren't, but I didn't argue. Much as I hate the idea, if we don't find what we're looking for today, we can check tomorrow. The problem is, I began peering at headstones and crypts, we may not have time to come back and look tomorrow.

Assuming we find out where it is, what happens once I _find_ this meeting place? It's not like they can send me in – I'm too recognizable. Granted, hiding Frostreaver'll make me a little less so…but I'm a _redhead_. We stick out! I wonder if the Guild could do something about that – make me look like a Breton or something…hm. There's something to that…

Personally, I'd like to go kick in the Mythic Dawns' front door…but I'm sure Baurus will beat me to it. He outranks me and can do that – and I pray no one gets the brilliant idea of letting headquarters think about it before we do anything. We may not have that kind of time.

You know, I'm about ready to start hating Baurus' guts. If this is anything like a dungeon – and it really sounds like one - I'm damn well qualified! I've been dungeon diving for a hobby since I was a teenager! Four brothers, lots of skeletons! It makes me _really qualified_!

Baurus I hate you!

"Ailirah!"

Tar-Meena's cry broke my internal preparation for a fight – I get so worked up, but nothing usually happens, I should learn to save myself the frustration – bringing me at a run to where she stood, producing a piece of parchment.

"Here, hold this, hold it flat," she hissed urgently, fumbling for a stick of charcoal in the satchel she'd slipped from her shoulder to rest on the ground.

I obeyed without question, pinning the parchment up by the top corners, exactly where she'd held it. Taking the charcoal delicately in one hand, she placed the other on the bottom of the parchment, ensuring it wouldn't wiggle, and then began to rub the charcoal across the paper.

AS I stood there gaping, an image appeared on the paper – a rubbing of whatever was beneath the paper. A sun motif headed it. Looking up, I could see the white-gold Tower, silhouetted against the sun – we stood upon the lee side of the crypt with the markings. Of course, the Mythic Dawn – they'd want their prospective acolyte facing the sun.

Makes sense, now that I think about it. Subtle, but not. Only crazy zealots could come up with this kind of stuff, I swear.

"Cyrodiil?" I asked as Tar-Meena continued carefully rubbing her charcoal across the markings.

"Mm-hmm," she answered.

Squinting and peering around the Argonian – we must look so stupid, I hope the guards don't want to know what we're doing to this crypt – I could make out the map a little better. "Shit." I announced, gaping.

"What?" Tar-Meena didn't look up, but the charcoal stopped its progression for a moment.

"I'll be a dancing chipmunk after all, I know where that is." I stated blankly, before swallowing hard.

--A--

--Author's notes, appended-

I took liberty with the positioning of the map on Prince Camarril's tomb. A little tweak that seemed to suit the Mythic Dawn's mysticism a little better.


	28. Chapter 28

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Twenty-Eight

--A--

It wasn't until I got to the Inn, after finding the map to the Mythic Dawn's hideout, that I remembered a crucial piece of information which had somehow filtered out of my mind. Or perhaps, it simply never registered, with everything else going on.

Baurus isn't even _in _the Imperial City anymore, so I can hardly tell him what the current situation is! He'd gone back to Cloud Ruler Temple, just after our fight with the cultists in the sewers. I suppose adrenaline can do that to a person.

True to the habits I learned in the guild, I choose to interpret this lack of supervision as permission to do my job – which is why I spent the next three days locked in the Arcane University with Tar-Meena and a plethora of her associates – most of whom were willing to pitch in to assist in a top secret mission. The rest were easy enough to pay off – though if I ever get the dye from the redwort flowers out of my hands, it'll be a miracle. Fortunately, I'm not only used to manual labor, I've done mages' guild gopher work before.

Like hunting imps for Ayaire in Bravil. She'd rather have _Julius_ do it for her (and go with him to _help_), she's got quite a crush on him, if you ask me. Julius doesn't want to hear about it – hence why he sends me. I suppose I _could_ tell her he's courting an orc.

But he'd kill me for it later. And of the four, he's my favorite - I couldn't do that to him.

I could do it to Roge, though.

Time to get my head in the game, or I'm going to blow it.

Lake Arrius and the adjacent caverns lies some way north of Cheydinhal. It's a great place to go swimming, I always stop there if the weather's good, and I'm in that corner of the province. However, in all of my excursions to the lake, I never found any kind of secret door, or weird caverns.

As I discovered, the door isn't behind the waterfall – the first place I thought to check, getting pretty wet in the attempt. Though, as the day is fairly warm, I can't say I mind too much. At least I feel a little cooler, after the long walk to get out here.

After about ten minutes of poking around, I found the door hidden in a rock structure. I highly suspect it's enchanted, because I've ranged around this area before and _never_ saw any kind of door. Pausing before the door, I shifted uncomfortably. The illusion spell the Guild put on me to make me look like someone else – in this case a Redguard lady with lots of braids – makes my skin feel funny. Like I've got gloves on, only over my entire body. And like a hand in a glove, my skin is sweating – though the illusion doesn't show it. It's bizarre.

I also feel naked without Frostreaver in hand. However, the little, nearly invisible band on my right hand stays vaguely reassuring. This is illusion-spelled too – it can't be seen except by the wearer. This was actually one of the Mage's plans – I suspect the one who recommended the illusion knows something about Daedric cults, though I consider myself too well-bred to pry about it. What I like about the ring is the blue stone set in it, the housing for the actually binding spell, is blue, just like the glass in Frostreaver's grip.

I still don't know what Tar-Meena told her associates, only that I never once was asked about what I was doing. I'm relying on her sense of discretion. I'm also relying on her to send a message to anyone associated with the Blades she can, so it gets back to headquarters what I'm up to. Hopefully, I'll be at headquarters not too long after the message gets through, but nothing's really certain.

With a fortifying breath, I turned the handle of the door, pushing it open and stepping into the dimly lit cavern.

Earthy, dry and smelling of dust, I nearly started sneezing out of hand. "The dawn is breaking."

Looking up while covering my nose with the crook of my elbow, I nodded, swallowing hard. "Greet the new day." I wheezed.

Please, please, please let this just be a nice thing to say and not some kind of password I can blow…

The door warden smiled. "Welcome, sister. The hour is late, but the Master still has need for willing hands," the door warden took me by the shoulder, shepherding me ahead of him. I hope he can't feel my heart banging around in my ribcage…

_Knock that off you'll give us away! _Now I know what the songwriters mean about a treacherous heart…

"You may pass into the Shrine. Harrow will take you to the Master for your initiation into the service of Lord Dagon."

"Harrow?" I couldn't stop the dumb response, but immediately regretted it. If it wouldn't look suspicious, I'd slap myself upside the head for stupidity. What if I was supposed to know who Harrow was already? This is why I don't usually do work involving skill, tact, and subtlety. Subtlety has never been one of my strong points.

The door warden simply chuckled, giving me a nudge in what I assumed was the right direction. "Do not tarry. The time of Preparation is almost over. The time of Cleansing is near."

I bowed a little clumsily, relief surging through me as I started forward, only now realizing how _dangerous_ this really is, and how _un_qualified I really am. I think I'd rather take on an Oblivion Gate and all the Dremora therein. I'm good at fighting, not so good at _this_ sort of thing.

Worst of it is, I'm a _volunteer_, and it's too late to back out. I should have gone back to headquarters…or would they have told me I should have gone on, on my own? I can't win this argument. No matter what I do, no matter how I do it, I'll wind up second-guessing myself…I'm not used to that. Resolution firming a little bit – second-guessing is not part of the Fighters' Guild manifesto - I strode forward with more assertiveness in my step.

Second-guessing yourself can get you killed. I'm not going to get myself killed. Confidence! I must radiate _confidence_! I wonder if I can get my bluff face from card games to work in this situation...? What's the difference, really?

Harrow was a Dunmer, with a decidedly mangy, slightly crazy aura about himself. Standing near another door he waved to me. "You. Initiate."

Assuming he meant me – no real feat of logic, there - I obediently padded forward and bowed my head subserviently. Harrow wore the exact same red robes as the assassins at the start of my part of this adventure. I'll bet he's got bound armor, too. "I am Harrow, Warden of the Shrine of Dagon. Your name?"

"Siona," I answered uncomfortably.

To my relief, my discomfort seemed to please Harrow. "By following the Path of Dawn hidden in the writings of the Master, you have earned a place among the Chosen, little Siona. You have arrived at an opportune time. You may have the honor of being initiated into the Order by the Master himself."

Harrow began to walk, as I trotted along at his shoulder, looking attentive. I feel like an obedient terrier.

The reason for my attention to where we walk, however, is so I can get back _out_ of here. The further we walked, oddly enough, the more I began to calm down. This is just like my induction into the guild – I knew I was in, everything was ready…but the traditions must be observed. I'll admit, I was nervous, then. I kept waiting for the bottom to drop out of my world.

Now I know if I foul up, it really will.

Harrow led us into a small antechamber, and began fishing around on the shelves within. "As a member of the Order of the Mythic Dawn," he explained, "everything you need will be provided for you from the Master's bounty. Ah, here we are." He straightened with robes and a hood draped over one arm, smiling at me.

Uh oh.

"Give me your possessions, and put on this initiate's robe."

Damn. Slowly, I slid off my backpack – it's full of things I need to travel, but nothing vital. Taking the robes, realization dawned on me. Damn – he's going to stand here and watch, isn't he? I knew it – why are all these cultists creeps?

Oh well, I grew up with four brothers. You learn how to change clothes without showing too much skin – more for their comfort than my own. My brothers have always been squeamish about their little sister. It got worse when I started to look like a woman. All I have to do is make like I'm going to change clothes and they all turn around really fast – it's hilarious. It's a really great way to end an argument on dungeon diving campaigns, once we get camp set up.

Presenting my back on Harrow, I pulled the robe on over my head, but didn't put my arms through the sleeves. Thus covered, I struggled out of my clothes, then slid my arms through the sleeves, put on the hood, belted the robe in place and put on the shoes a rather disgruntled-looking Harrow was holding out.

See? Modesty.

Harrow looked me over once – the robes didn't really allow for me to hide much in the way of weapons - then nodded, apparently satisfied I had no weapons or other unsanctioned belongings.

He didn't see the ring, resting on the middle finger of my right hand. His eyes swept right over it, and it took a lot of effort not to wring my hands, so I could feel the little bauble, comforting, beneath my hand. I've tested this thing, and re-tested it, if I call, my armor and Frostreaver will come. The Arcane University is – very kindly – holding my things for me until I can come back for them.

"Come," Harrow waved me out ahead of him, "your initiation awaits."

Licking my lips and nodding, I swallowed hard. Good thing I'm nervous – it'll make me more believable. My heart began to flutter again. If I thought walking around without Frostreaver was uncomfortable, walking around in Mythic Dawn raiment is a lot worse.

I couldn't shake the persistent thought of 'you're dressed like the bastards who killed the Emperor. Who'd kill Martin and everyone else, given the opportunity'. As Harrow guided me deeper into the cavern complex, I noticed there were no human guards – all were Dremora, huge, hulking, and wearing several hundred pounds of heavy plate, eyeing us puny mortals with mild disinterest.

It's weird not having them snarling and making many and varied threats against my life and person. "Can you tell me," I began, but Harrow clicked his tongue impatiently.

"The Master is preaching in the Shrine as we speak! We must hurry. You should not miss the chance to hear the Master's words!" I got the feeling he didn't want to miss the Mas…

Wait. What?

_Master _– as in…as in _Mankar Camoran himself? _Oh shit. He's _here_? _How?_ More importantly...now what? This is all going wrong. Craaap! I wish Baurus hadn't headed back to the Temple without me – I could use his help. Or Cyrus. And Rols and Caro…anyone, I'm not picky.

Harrow herded me the rest of the way, and if it wasn't for my preoccupation with the apparent presence of Mankar Camoran, I might have balked upon entering the shrine itself. However, distraction paled my surroundings.

Mehrunes Dagon's stone effigy loomed high above us, over a raised stage, where an elf stood, watching his followers, speaking out to them. I made an assumption that _this _is the infamous Mankar Camoran – the way everyone's watching him with glazed expressions of those blissfully unimpeded by individual free thought. If I hadn't know what kind of bad hoodoo Mankar Camoran was involved with, I might have pegged him as a member of the mages' guild, and kept right on walking. His relationship to the lich-thing was very apparent, to me at least, manifesting in an unhealthy greenish tinge to his otherwise Altmeri pallor. I don't care what the history says - I don't see any Bosmer in him.

Here, however, he took on a more menacing persona, made worse by looking green around the gills. Even without information on his background (namely he could probably blast me into a pile of ashes before I got close enough to do more than wave Frostreaver at him) I can tell he's not someone I should start attacking out of hand. Least of my problems being his associates would have a problem with it. In his case, i advocate wither knifing him in the back, or paying the Dark Brotherhood to do it. They're better at that sort of thing than I am.

As Harrow shunted me forward, to stand off to one side of the stairs leading up to the stage - giving me a good view of Mankar Camoran's back, I had time to think. I could see that Camoran – when he looked down – was referencing a book lying open on a stone table, or counter. I could also see the Amulet of Kings lying near his hand.

"The Dragon Throne is empty, and we hold the Amulet of Kings!" Camoran announced, waving his assembly to silence. Despite my distaste for anything he might have to say, I mastered the impulse to think harder and tune him out. This is reconnaissance, information gathering, and while not my primary specialty…if I don't listen up, I'm not getting out of here.

And I have to get out. To carry the warning if nothing else. "Praise be to your Brothers and Sisters! Great shall be their reward in Paradise! Hear now the words of Lord Dagon." He looked down at the book on the surface before him, his hand absently touching the Amulet of Kings, his prize.

Resisting the urge to narrow my eyes, my teeth clenched. Hands off it, you creep.

"_When I walk the earth again, the Faithful among you shall receive your reward: to be set above all other Mortals forever. As for the rest: the weak shall be winnowed; the timid shall be cast down; the mighty shall tremble at my feet and pray for pardon_." Camoran read loudly, as the crowd periodically responded to the readings.

Forget afraid. I'm not scared now. I'm angry. Pissed off by this bullshit they're shoveling down. Not everyone _can _be a gung-ho sword-toting, dungeon diving gorilla like me. They shouldn't have to – that's why the Fighter's Guild exists. And if anyone _believes_ this garbage, they deserve what they get. Mehrunes Dagon's the Prince of Ambition, for once – does anyone here _really_ think he'll stand by anything he says, once he's got what he wants? They're just convenient, empty promises, useful for manipulating pawns…

…wow. Sort of answered my own question there. These idiots are so enamored of being the bad guys, they handed over their brains when they walked in the door. No wonder they're still gazing glassy-eyed and slack-jawed at Camoran.

This officially makes me the smartest person here – as I'm the only one still thinking for myself. Not that it means much. Taking a deep, steadying breath, I forced my nerves not to jangle to the point of distracting me. Think Ailirah – _think hard_. I can't just run up and grab the Amulet – it's suicide, then there's all the Dremora in the hall. They'll make meatballs out of me.

Speak of the devils. In the moment of silence Camoran observed, the guards came trooping in, their step metered and even, filing up onto the stage.

Not temple guards, _bodyguards_. Looking over the room my mind spun. Most of these people don't strike me as warriors – they rely on ambushes and weight of numbers. It's how they've always attacked before.

I'll bet at least half have never seen a real fight, where people _die_ before. I have more things to live for, not to mention more experience with possible-death situations…Harrow could still pose a problem. He's not even paying attention.

"Your reward, Brothers and Sisters!" I jerked, startled at the sudden proclamation from Camoran.

He took the Amulet of Kings and slipped it into a hidden pocket of his robes, mouth twisted into a self-satisfied grin. Damn…it's walking away from me again…if I could just reach it…there's too many Dremora, I'll only get myself killed faster. What'd he do, empty out a whole outpost? There's got to be at least ten of them! "The time of Cleansing draws nigh. I go now to Paradise. I shall return with Lord Dagon at the coming of the Dawn!" Camoran announced, looking down at his followers with a sort of benign patriarchal expression.

My stomach sank into my heels as Camoran turned, waved and walked into the portal he created, followed by his Dremora escort. The portals snapped closed behind him with a sense of finality, but he'd left the book. Glancing up at the statue of Mehrunes Dagon I have to wonder: could that be the Mysterium Xarxes? If this is Dagon's shrine, shouldn't it have some kind of…of relic to show off to devotees?

Possible. In fact, probable.

"Get moving! Up you go!" Harrow grunted, giving me a sharp poke in the back. I automatically began to walk up onto the dais. Now I could see the rest of it, my stomach dropped further, if such a thing was possible.

Lying strapped, bound, gagged and silent was an Argonian, stripped to his loincloth, eyes bulging with fear. Lying on the other side of the book from which Camoran had read was a very ugly-looking knife, like a shaving razor, only more crudely made.

Harrow and I were met by a woman who bore a startling similarity to Camoran…and oddly enough one of the cultists from the sewers back in the Imperial City. She smiled at me, as I catalogued her appearance. Some sort of junior high priestess, second to Camoran? Her robes are far more intricate, more detailed and expensive than anyone else's here.

"Mistress Ruma," Harrow bowed and I immediately followed suit. "The new Initiate," he touched my shoulder. I glanced up, half-expecting her to start screaming 'what's _she_ doing here?!', seeing through my disguise.

"Excellent. So, you have come to dedicate yourself to Lord Dagon's service." She has the same faintly greenish look about her as Camoran. If I didn't know the answer was 'lich', I'd wonder what they were related _to_, and assume 'troll'. It's cruel, but as they're poised to try to take over the world (or burn it to cinders), I'm not feeling very charitable.

You know, I'm pretty sure she _is _related to Camoran – the family resemblance is uncanny.

"Yes, Mistress." I mumbled as humbly as I could manage while resisting the urge to spring the trap. I've got to think fast – there's a hostage, there's no Amulet…I'm not walking out of here empty handed. "This pact must be sealed with red-drink, the blood of Lord Dagon's enemies." She pointed to the Argonian. "Take up the dagger, sister, and offer Lord Dagon the sacrificial red-drink as pledge of your own life's blood, which shall be his in the end."

Both Ruma and Harrow stepped back, as if distancing themselves so as not to catch any blood spatter. I don't see why they should bother – I thought they'd enjoy something like that.

Steeling myself to do something drastic I walked up to the table upon which the book and the knife lay.

The book wasn't written in any language I recognized. In fact, it was only two pages long, sandwiched between what looked like fairly thick covers. The true hint of importance was the feeling it exuded. Something about the feel of it reminded me uncomfortably of Oblivion, the heat, the nastiness, the general ambiance of pain and torment.

Three guesses as to how many books with those characteristics are hiding in a Mehrunes Dagon shrine for fanatic cultists. My hand closed over the knife. I lost the Amulet again…I'm not letting that book out of here, with anyone but me. The knife's hilt cut into my hand.

--Author's notes, appended—

'Siona' is actually the name of a character in the "Elder Scrolls Adventures" title 'Redguard'.


	29. Chapter 29

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Twenty-Nine

--A--

Looking at the glittering blade of the razor in my hand, my mind raced, my heart marking the pace. Amazingly enough, neither Harrow nor Ruma seem to hear it, or to sense any sort of discomfiture on my part. That won't last.

I can't hold a book while I'm fighting…gritting my teeth I braced myself to take action. There's no way this will play out in my favor – I simply have to hit first and hit hardest. "What are you waiting for?" Harrow demanded, his voice cutting across my frantic thoughts like the crack of a whip. "Steel yourself and strike!" he had moved – from the direction and distance of his voice to my ear, I knew he was within strike range.

I only get one change at this. Taking another deep breath I exploded into motion.

Turning sharply on my heel, I grabbed Harrow by the front of his robes with one hand, using the other to dive the knife into his chest, sliding the weapon between his ribs right into his heart. Continuing to drag him around, I used him to block a spell Ruma threw at me, feeling magicka, putrid and foul, slam into Harrow then spill past me like a burst of hot air.

I gave Harrow a shove towards Ruma, who raised her arms to either blast him out of her way, or defend herself from him.

The crowd watching had finally caught on something was wrong, though they seemed unable to react quickly enough.

The ring on my finger burned hot as I concentrated a burst of magicka in my hand – the catalyst which became the grip of Frostreaver. The spell changing my appearance disintegrated as well. Ignoring this I moved forward as Ruma pushed Harrow's corpse away from her, yelping in shock at his sudden fate. She managed to raise her shield as Frostreaver came crashing down, stopping an inch from her forehead. I didn't try to crack her shield – though I was close to doing it, as a silvery gouge appeared around Frostreaver's blade, an icy rime spreading from the mark. The second blow shattered the shield, the off end of the sword sweeping up from the ground.

Ruma yelped as the protective spell broke. The recoil shocked her, disoriented her, so my next strike – from the top down – cleaved her in two, from shoulder to waist. Blood spattered everywhere, surging over the floor as the gathered cultists began to panic.

Well, she and Harrow wanted blood spilled.

Half of the onlookers fled outright as I strode towards the book. Half that moved towards the dais, intending to try to stop me. The remaining quarter stood where they were, either indecisive, too shocked to move, or simply waiting to see whether they could guarantee their side would win.

The Mysterium Xarxes burned my hand slightly as I touched it – though not a damaging burn. Just the sense of heat and irritation. I can't fight with this thing in my hand…

No sooner had I lifted the book from its place then a loud crack, a grinding rumble and a strangled scream behind me made me jump. Turning sharply, looking for the source of the noise I overbalanced, knocking mercilessly into the table upon which the Mysterium Xarxes had lain. I was just in time to see the statue of Mehrunes Dagon wobble, then begin to tip, tip tip…oh no…

I screamed, casting up a hand to cover my eyes, sliding to the floor, back scraping along the table against which I wedged myself. All around me the cultist's shrieks, but the muffled sounds of the Argonian went silent in the sonorous noise of the statue's sudden collapse.

_Booby trap_. I just killed the hostage...

The statue hit the ground, crushing the Argonian like a bug. A thick cloud of choking dust and dirt filled the air, making me cough as I got to my feet, shoving the Mysterium Xarxes into the safest, most secure place I had: down the front of my robe, held near my torso by the tightly cinched belt. My skin crawled, burned and prickled form the contact – only then I realized the hand with which I'd gripped the book had truly burned – though not to the point of rendering it useless.

I need my hands – I'll just have to cope.

Unable to do anything more for the Argonian - I can't believe I killed…_got _him killed him - I made for the stairs, summoning my armor, which pulled right as it manifested, the Mysterium Xarxes changing the fit of my chainmail, making it far snugger than it should be. Trying not to breathe in the dust, desperate to see through watering eyes, I struggled to my feet, dodging to the left as one cultist came vaulting up the stairs, apparently under the impression I was hurt.

Well, I had screamed.

Frostreaver slid through him, making him gasp. Pivoting smoothly, I flung him away, momentum sliding off the blade like a sausage from a skewer to land in a crumpled heap onto the other side of the dais.

The Mysterium Xarxes continued to burn, and to jostle me, as if it had a life of its own, a will of its own…and as if it _knew_ I wasn't one of the faithful, that I was an enemy, and it had to stop me.

I wish the Amulet of Kings was so persistent with thieves.

Reaching the bottom of the short flight of stairs, I found more cultists - some whose courage had returned, some who were smart enough to hang back and assess the threat. Panting I raised Frostreaver. I'm in luck – there's only eight or so of them – less than twelve. Less than twenty-four. Thank goodness for small blessings.

"You cannot win." One woman said coldly, glaring icy daggers at me. "Give me the book."

"Can't win, huh? Last I counted…I've got a body count of about five…you guys. None. Where's my math gone wrong?" It's so simply even _I_ can't mess it up. "Have you ever tried to fight something like this," I hefted Frostreaver, "with one of those dinky knives?" I asked, seeking to scare off as many of the weaker members as I could. I'm only one woman, after all, – they're right about that. I can't kill twelve people all at once, or even fight twelve at once –that's ridiculous."I'll give you a hint – it doesn't end well for you…"

Two of the men launched themselves at me. One of them managed to throw himself onto Frostreaver, his momentum carrying us both to the ground, his corpse rendering the weapon ineffective. His colleague a few seconds behind summoned his armor and a weapon as I fell back. As I struggled to my feet, freeing my weapon from the corpse, his mace caught me in the ribs, a glancing blow, because of Frostreaver's position.

But it wasn't fast enough, wasn't enough to stop the attack.

Falling sideways I screamed, in pain and fury as I forced myself back up, blocking his next blow, my side screaming, the book burning. A moment later I turned the off end shedding sparks as it raked across his chest before I jabbed the other end through the gap between his chin and breastplate.

The ribs are cracked, if not broken. I know it, just from how hard it is to move…dammit. Still, I've got one arm, and some mobility left in my hurt side – but not enough to help, I don't think. It'll have to be enough. Sweat dropped into my eyes as I repelled another attack, forced to fight on the defensive, having lost my ability to make unpredictable springs forward.

However, the Mysterium Xarxes benefitted me in that it eventually shifted so it lay across my injured side, the armor pulling tight around the injury, the book bracing it. Not the best way to fix a wound, but it helped a little –and even a little is better than nothing at all.

Unfortunately, blood began to seep through the links in my mail, to the delight of the cultists.

Time ceased to retain meaning. One thing at a time.

--A--

It's cold. And filthy…pain screamed through my torso as I tried to move.

Despite the pain, my fingers clenched around Frostreaver's grip. I'm still in the shrine. But I'm obviously alive…

Sitting up, it took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim light – though less time than I expected. The Mysterium Xarxes now had my skin feeling raw, almost like a sunburn. Blood still oozed through my chainmail, but slowly, as if the wound beneath had finally closed itself, or was sufficiently muffled by the Mysterium Xarxes…can that thing cauterize a wound?

Getting slowly to my knees I resisted the urge to throw up, though nausea and bile rose in my throat. Clamping my hand over my mouth my eyes found bodies. Lots of them. Why am I still alive? If I went down, they should have killed me. Not left me to recover…

Oh wait, no, no they didn't overwhelm me. I must have passed out, once the fight was over.

Details seeped back as I knelt, hanging on Frostreaver, unsure of my ability to get to my feet.

They surrounded me, I couldn't take the offensive, the injuries were too bad. Are too bad. But one of them got stupid – a mage. He…She? No, she. She thought she had a clear shot at me. She even had a clear shot…unfortunately, when I threw myself to the ground, her spell took out half the people standing behind me. Shock and confusion spread amongst the cultists –they wanted to kill me. They had to stop her, lest she kill anyone else, trying to squish me like a bug without regard for her teammates …it all gets sort of confusing after that. Then I was slammed back by a spell's shockwave…and woke up here.

Well, I did say they weren't the smartest bunch of people.

Looking back over my shoulder I found a patch of something dark on the wall behind me. Reaching up gingerly, I found my hair matted with dried blood. Damn. I should have gone back for reinforcements. The spark of irritation blossomed like blood in water as I forced myself to my feet. The haze of anger and pain, coupled with my sudden return to standing was too much. I collapsed back to my knees and vomited.

Collapsing back to a sitting position, I wiped my mouth as best I could, heat creeping through my body. Ugh…I feel like I just got out of an Oblivion Gate.

So now what?

More slowly, I got to my feet, leaning on Frostreaver awkwardly. It'll be easier if I could dismiss my armor – make it easier to move. But it makes me vulnerable, I'm not sure I could summon the magicka needed to call it again.

Leaning on a rock I tried to call power into my fingertips, a magelight, for company if I can managed it…but nothing happened.

Damn. I'm back to a Mundane. Stupid…stupid. My eyes burned with tears, as memory of the dead Argonian, trapped beneath all that rubble swarmed back. The statue collapsed when I took the book…a booby trap.

Why didn't I think of that? If I'd paid more attention…if I hadn't been so eager to get a hold of some kind of collateral for the Amulet of Kings, maybe I could have…could have saved him…

This thought made my throat lock up, and a moment later, I slid off the rock, letting Frostreaver fall to the ground. Drawing my knees up as best I could, ribs screaming, I dropped my head onto my arms and began to cry.

It won't help the situation…but the tears came anyway.

From pain. From fear. From helplessness…

Maybe there's a reason my brothers are the way they are…I mean, a real, valid, _really good reason_, past the one I've always accepted.

What am I doing here? I don't _belong_ here.

Darkness and the chill of the cavern began to press in on me.

I want to go home. I _hurt_. I don't think I've ever felt so alone.

--A--

Chapel.

Opening my eyes a little wider, struggling to sit up, I realized I was in a chapel, and dying of thirst.

"Oh, you're awake!" One of the healers bustled over to me, incongruous to the post, I felt, as he was possibly bigger than my brothers – decidedly a Nord – but was beaming almost too pleasantly at me. He also handed me a glass of water, with instructions to drink it down.

I hardly needed encouragement until it came time to swallow the liquid – significantly harder than I expected.

Oooh…just let me die already…

"You mustn't exert yourself," he began firmly when I finally drained the cup, handed it back and began to take stock of how best to get out of here. The Xarxes' theft isn't going to stay secret long – if they come after me to get it back, I'd rather have them come to Cloud Ruler Temple where there's lots of Blades and mages than have tem hit the chapel.

"I have to go." I choked out, my throat feeling raw and sore, like the precursor to a cold.

"Go? My dear child," a massive hand pressed on my shoulder, "look at you! The city watch practically carried you here! You're hurt, you need to rest."

"I need to get back…" I managed to keep something like a snarl out of my voice. Whatever it is, it scratched at my throat, like the claws of a bad cold "I have to go…I can't stay here." And I can't tell you why. You're safer not knowing.

"Oh yes you will stay here," the Nord asserted. "Now, is there someone I can tell that you're here? Do you belong to any of the guilds? _Sit_."

I gasped in pain as he pushed harder on my shoulder, as well as from sudden fatigue as the priest used a spell to drain my strength, until I flopped helplessly back onto the low bed. A moment later another healer bustled over and between the two of them they returned me to a more comfortable reclining position. I noticed here that while I still had my trousers, my top was no more than several layers of snugly-wrapped linen bandages – and a heavy pad of gauze over my ribs. "Fighters' Guild," I slurred around the effects of the spell. "But don't send for them…"

"Ah, I see. Charity, will you let them know we've got one of their girls?" The priest asked his assistant.

She gave me a pitying look before sweeping off.

"No don't bother…" I tried to protest. I'm not on the greatest terms with the local guildhall. You can't like everyone, and everyone certainly doesn't like me. I shall try to restrain my tears. I'd be better off trying to restrain my _sarcasm_. "I…what's your name?" I managed to ask, nearly blacking out from dizziness and his damned spell.

"Hil," he answered.

What else? "Hil…I can't stay here…It's important_…where's my bag?_" A surge of panicked energy, unexpected, terrifying, but welcome allowed me to sit up quickly.

Hil jumped as I tried to scramble out of bed, succeeding only in getting tangled in my sheets, falling over the side and landing with a pained screech and a thump. Bandaged ribs – not healed. "As you have undoubtedly noticed, we haven't healed your ribs just yet – it's not the ribs we're worried about. It's the burns you've sustained…" Hil began.

"_Where's my thrice-damned bag_?!" I hissed, feeling heat rise to my face. Whoa – my hands are both bandaged too, how did I miss that?

The color drained from Hil's face, his eyes popping as I managed to free myself to kneel on the ground, dragging my knuckles against the stone, wincing as I did so. As if I don't have enough injuries… "It's under your bed…"

Fumbling, my head pounding with pain, I found the bag, lying under my bed. I liberated my pack from the little room in which I'd changed into my Mythic Dawn robes so I wouldn't have to carry the Mysterium Xarxes back to Bruma in my shirt. Thank goodness I did. The book still buzzed inside the bag, malevolent and skin-prickling. Just holding the bag, feeling the shape of the book inside made my burns act up.

With a groan I leaned against the bed, my sweaty brow hot against the cool sheets, glad to let the book and bag lie under the bed for the time being. "Oh…good..." I mumbled. "It's good…" it's _safe_. I can't even guarantee the remaining members of the Mythic Dawn won't come looking for it…

"What's your name, child?" Hil asked, though he didn't try to help me back up onto the bed.

"Ailirah," I breathed.

"Ailirah – will you tell me what happened to you?"

"Got in a fight," I answered evasively as the amplified feeling of burning began to ease.

"The burns?" Hil pressed.

Lifting my head I smiled sadly at him. "I close Oblivion Gates, Hil – you're going to get burned, if you go into one. The burns are Daedric burns." _Technically_ I suppose this is true. I hate lying to the clergy – I always get the feeling they know when I do.

Martin knows something about Daedric stuff, and he's a priest…he'll know how to fix them.

"You…" Hil blinked in shock.

"Yeah…and…I have three outside this city I need to do…it's still three, right?" I asked blearily. I saw the lights in and out of the travel to the city – ten again, I was in such a bad way towards the end, there could have been nine gates and I couldn't have kept count.

I'll come back once I can fight again.

"Ailirah!" Looking up I saw Ohtimbar shuffling towards me. "What are you doing here...?"

"Go away." I pointed fiercely at him.

Ohtimbar is a slug – I don't like him at all. I think he's a freeloader, a party-boy, and if he didn't have some value, I'd make noise about convincing him to find a place more suitable to his talents. Like the supposed 'thieves' guild'. He left the Arena to begin with, or I'd say go there.

Ohtimbar stopped in his tracks, looking uncomfortable. He knows I don't like him much, even if I usually retain a polite demeanor. "Ah…Ailirah?"

"I said _go_," I growled, a tremor of harshness seeping into my tone as I suddenly found myself able to stand up - though not without pain, screaming pain in my side, dulled by the boiling anger…why am I so _angry_? It's not like me at all!

Leaning on the bed frame I glowered. "Unless you've got news from the Guildmaster, Ohtimbar, just go away."

"Now," Hil began.

"Ohtimbar and I don't get along, Hil – I know you meant well sending for one of my guildmates, but I assure you, it's not necessary." Why am I so angry all of a sudden? He's a slug and I don't like him, but he's not worth this amount of energy.

Ohtimbar left, as requested. Turning to Hil I heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry to be such a cantankerous patient, Hil, but I can't stay here. I'm on a job for the Guild, and it is time sensitive." The attempt to remain diplomatic nearly broke my wavering composure.

"You crawl into the city half-killed and you think you can just walk out of here?" Hil asked, arching his eyebrows.

"I can get proper care once I'm in Bruma – I just need to get there," I responded as reasonably as I could, shaking from the effort to reign in my temper, though perhaps as much from the pain. "Please, just patch me up, and I'll be on my way. You know what caused the burns, what's the complication?" The effort to retain reason, when a maelstrom of anger and pain swirled in my head, pounding behind my eyes almost broke something inside of me.

What the hell is wrong with me? It's starting to scare me.

--A--

--Author's notes, appended--

With the amount of fuss Martin makes during game play about 'that evil book', I couldn't understand why transporting it had no ill effects on the character. So we now have ill-effects for the Mysterium Xarxes, based on the theory of "Mehrunes Dagon is the Daedric Prince of Change".


	30. Chapter 30

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Please keep in mind things will seem odd, by the simple fact that this is all in Ailirah's head and she doesn't have all the facts – therefore, she explains as best she can. --Special thanks to Gregoryhell who caught a massive flaw - which is now fixed.

--A--

Chapter Thirty

--A--

It took longer than I would have liked to get back to Cloud Ruler Temple, despite Keld of the Isles – a guildmate – making sure I got to Bruma safely. Keld is a friend of Brutus' – and of mine. He also knows enough not to ask a girl questions she doesn't want to answer. Once I told him this was just an irregular beating from a dungeon dive he stopped asking questions.

The stairs up into the Temple complex nearly killed me. My ribs ache like anything, despite what Hil and the other priests could do. As for the burns…I swear, they were all right when I left Cheydinhal. By the time I was to Cloud ruler Temple, the ones on my stomach had begun to weep. I think it's got something to do with the proximity of the Mysterium Xarxes. Come to think of it, I never saw anyone else touch it. Well, it was booby trapped, but maybe they had a really good reason or leaving it lying open like that.

On top of which I felt sick and had a headache humming in the back of my skull – a very odd place for a headache. I've gotta get rid of this book. Hefting a smile and pleasant demeanor into place with a massive effort I beamed as I reached the top of the stairs.

"Welcome back 'Lirah!" Caro beamed from her post on the wall facing out over Bruma.

"Hey Caro!" Bring on the exuberance, "Where's Martin?"

"Great hall – he's set up near the back. Lots of space to spread out, he said." Caro chuckled, adjusting her helmet. "I think he's trying to establish a secondary library."

Chuckling I nodded, waving and agreeing to some activity later - honestly, I didn't even hear what activity I just agreed to. I hope it doesn't involve curlers – my hair doesn't need the help, and some of the female Blades are girly-girls. I was never a girly-girl – I was dungeon diving while the rest were playing at princesses. I was playing with wooden swords when I should have been dreaming of unicorns and making flower chains.

Granted, I kind of missed doing girl things (even if they were boring) for the sake of having friends…but as my brothers always cut me in evenly on anything we found while, well. Finders' fees can make up for a lot of sitting around, doing nothing.

Jauffre and Martin were sitting, with Cyrus and Baurus standing behind them like stony sentinels. The table nearly groaned under the books laying strewn across it, reminding me of how the study Tar-Meena and I used looked. My stomach quavered uncomfortably with nerves, my report isn't the most uplifting, even if I got the Mysterium Xarxes. Jauffre's not going to like me letting the Amulet of Kings walk off like that…hell, _I_ don't like letting it walk off like that. Still, I'm not dumb enough to take on twelve Dremora at once. He'll have to be satisfied with the book for now.

"Ailirah," Martin broke off whatever he was saying to Jauffre to stand up and greet me.

Hefting a smile onto my face, hoping to keep anyone from noticing I wasn't in the greatest shape or spirits, I approximated my usual swagger up to the cluster. "Hey, didn't I just _leave_ a think tank?" I teased mildly. See? Cocky redhead, all is well.

"It's good to see you back," Jauffre nodded, though Martin's expression took on a hint of concern, as if he sees right through my facade of confidence. He probably _can_…oh, _please_, I don't want to explain this in front of everyone. "We got a message from Tar-Meena at the University, that you were going into trouble."

I almost jumped, startled out of my mental litany of 'please don't ask'. "Oh?" Damn, now Martin's giving me that 'I know you're not all right, so what's wrong?' look. "It was nothing I couldn't handle," I beamed, and knew I'd overdone it. No mistaking it, Martin's not buying the routine. I caught his eye, giving my head a nearly imperceptible shake. Not here. Not now. I just hope he saw it.

How's that for subtle?

"What have you to report – Tar-Meena only said it was, ah, reconnaissance?" Jauffre offered, his expression intense and expectant. He thinks I've got something really big…I know what he wants me to have – the Amulet – but the answer's still no.

I caught the look Baurus and Cyrus exchanged behind Jauffre's back.

_What, recon? __Her__?_

Oh, gee, thanks guys. Your confidence is overwhelming. "Well, Tar-Meena and I found the hidden Mehrunes Dagon shrine," I began slowly, though I hurried along after catching the looks on the faces turned towards me: a mix of horror, worry, and incredulity. "No it's _not_ still standing. On that note, we might want to send the legion to finish clearing it out…or organize a recreational dungeon dive…or something." My smile faltered as I ended lamely.

I could almost hear the crash of the statue falling, imagined the 'squish' sound the poor Argonian must have made when death in the form of falling stone landed on him. "I…there were a couple c-casualties," I nearly choked on the word, fighting to regain the flow of my report.

I'm not in the habit of losing people I'm trying to save. My composure slipped, and when it did I almost threw my bag onto the nearest bench. As if my momentary swing towards negative emotion was a trigger, my burns started to act up again, my head positively pounding. I actually had to put out a hand to brace myself against the table, dizziness swirling, and a vague white light dancing at the extreme edges of my vision.

"Ailirah?" Martin asked gently from where he still sat, hands folded before him, practically radiating peace and calm.

"I'm okay." I answered automatically, realizing most of the weird light seemed to point towards him. No, I'm not okay, this isn't okay….it _hurts_. "Casualties," I repeated, forcing myself to look up – no lights, as if looking at the source brought them into focus, the whiteness tugging at the edges of my vision vanished as well, though the dizziness remains. "Mankar Camoran was there." No babble ensued, but Martin closed his eyes, biting his bottom lip. I don't think anyone else really noticed. "He says he's off to paradise to prepare the way, or some cultist bullshit," Martin's eyes popped back open. Only me – I know. "I'm sorry," I offered, more to Martin than to Jauffre or the others, "but he's still got the Amulet of Kings..."

"You let the Amulet walk off?" Baurus gaped.

My temper flared so unexpectedly I felt like a volcano going off for a moment, heat rushing from my toes to the top of my head, driving away dizziness. "Then _you_ fight off the twelve Dremora walking with it, and Camoran, and his bitch-priestess, _and the rest of the damned compound_!" I snarled. "I'm only _one person_!" The injustice of it beat like poison in my veins. Or disease, crippling and unclean.

"Ailirah," Martin reached across the table, making to touch my shoulder. For a moment, in which I snarled wordlessly in warning, reflexively drawing back he seemed…_bright, _to the point I had to squint, as if he were wreathed in light, as if all the lights previously teasing my vision solidified into one.

This is...this _might _be how come the Daedra knew who to go after before I did – how they I knew they hadn't found him, and therefore, to keep tearing Kvatch apart. It's in his bloodline...and I don't see it all the time because I'm still _human_...right? Three guesses as to what's triggering this..._strangeness_.

Even as this realization hit me, I took a half step back, flinching as I did. Some part of the back of my mind screaming _he'll destroy you! _only in fewer words, while the fore of my mind screamed back _are you crazy?_.

Then it was gone – it was simply Martin, looking more worried than offended, backed by Jauffre, Baurus and Cyrus, all of whom wore varying degrees of shock. "I brought you something," I rasped, coughing slightly, my throat feeling uncomfortably scratchy, as I tried to cover my gaffe. Reaching up, I rubbed my throat with one hand before fumbling with my back.

This is _Martin_ we're talking about. A teacher. A friend. I must have hit my head sometime recently. Oh, wait, I _did _hit my head, didn't I?

I'm sweating…and now I feel really sick. It was painful to take the bag in hand, to open it – the joints in my fingers ached as if I'd held them clenched for too long. I could feel the skin burning from contact with the book. Flinching I pulled the Mysterium Xarxes out of the bag. "I did get this…" I began.

"By the Nine!" Martin's eyes pinpointed.

I yelped as he jumped to his feet, banged his knee, striking my wrist. _Hard_. His slap sent the Mysterium Xarxes spinning, knocked loose to land with a thump on the floor. "Ow!" I yelped, jerking back, my wrist throbbing from the attack.

"Don't touch it!" Martin snapped to the others as he made another grab for my arm.

I reacted, trying to pull away, failed, tripped backwards and yelped as my shoulder in its socket protested – since Martin could brace himself against the table, he keep me from hitting the floor.

"Let go!" I yelped, regaining my balance.

Martin let go, but only so he could sweep – oh, he's dressed like a priest again – around the table. He took my wrists, as if he thought I might try and punch him. If he doesn't let go of me, I just might... "_Ailirah_," he barked.

Looking up I saw, not anger, merely concern and a certain force of personality I wasn't sure how to describe. I stopped struggling to get loose. Once I stopped fighting, even this token resistance, Martin's grip relaxed, the pain in my wrist eased, and I could feel warmth seeping through his hands into my arms, a healing spell, or something similar, to take an edge off my discomfort.

My palms upwards he found the burns on my hands, and it looked for a moment as though I _had_ punched him. More gently this time – with this gesture it became painfully apparent the Mysterium Xarxes was not his primary concern – taking my chin in hand, peering into my eyes, then my face, and my eyes again, his expression worried…and fearful.

I had trouble meeting his gaze, feeling both wrong-footed as well as a little ashamed of my outburst.

Then Martin sighed, putting a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Such an artifact is dangerous to even _handle_…" He explained quietly. Something clicked in his expression.

I know where this is going – you're going to drag me to the infirmary, aren't you? Wait, no, that's a good thing. I want to get patched up. As if remembering about them made them worse, the burns on my stomach began to sting. Ow. "We needed a collateral for the Amulet of Kings," I grit out. "This was the best I…"

"Shh," Martin interrupted me, giving my shoulder a squeeze I took to mean I needn't justify myself, and I certainly didn't need to explain things to the room at large. "The effort is appreciated," Martin said firmly. "You handled it without any protection, didn't you?"

"I didn't…yes." I corrected myself. It's not an accusation, I decided belatedly. He needs to know, if he's going to fix it.

"It left you open to its influence. The burns will heal,t he side effects will wear off," Martin announced gently, as if he could see my rising concern over my erratic reactions. Then as if startled he looked up, leaning forward. "Are you burned anywhere else? Anywhere at all?" The question as so quiet, I doubt anyone else heard it.

"You don't miss much, do you?" I smiled weakly, but I think my concern wasn't as well-hidden as I would have liked.

"Ailirah, this isn't a joke, it's not close to funny – yes or no. No, never mind," he waved dismissing the question. "Get on to the infirmary. Go on." He murmured urgently, giving me a gentle nudge in that direction.

"What about the…" I began.

"_Ailirah_."

"Okay, yes, I'm going." I held up my hands, recognizing this as one of those time sensitive issues. If he's worried, what should I be, I wonder?

"Jauffre, go with her," Martin waved to Jauffre. The last I saw, before Jauffre walked me out of the great hall was Martin taking my bag, and without touching the book with his bare hands, slipping the Mysterium Xarxes into it.

"What is going on?" Jauffre asked as we walked, his brow crinkled.

"The book burned me." I answered quietly. "See?" I held up one hand. In the time between having the book knocked out of my hand and now, it had started to weep a clear liquid, making my whole hand feel sticky and unpleasant.

"_What_…" Jauffre increased his pace, forcing me to increase mine. "Daedric artifacts – especially powerful ones – tend to retain characteristics of their Prince's realm of influence, you're lucky it didn't _kill_ you," Jauffre began to lecture – my hackles began to rise, and it took a lot of effort not to snarl and be snappish.

Which is weird, because I know several people with Daedric artifacts –and not the piddly ones either – who have _never_ taken injury from them. "You're not worried about me, are you Jauffre?" I tried to tease, though my tone rendered it rather snide. Everyone's concern is getting to me. I need to keep my mood up, but it's getting increasingly difficult.

"Cut the crap, Ailirah," Jauffre said shortly, which I interpreted as a 'yes'.

Entering the infirmary I took a seat on one of the beds without anyone directing me to, and wound up gently un-sticking my hand from the white sheet, the clear liquid it wept sticking unmercifully.

Within a few moments we heard Martin. "No, you two, stay put." Wow, he's starting to sound like the Guy in Charge around here. I've got to admit, I feel better without that damned book around, and thankfully, Martin wasn't carrying it when he came into the infirmary. Shutting the door, he warded it as well. "Where did it burn you?" Martin asked, fairly radiating calm and competency.

"Uh..." Why am I resisting the urge to blush? "Mostly on my stomach."

"What?" Jauffre scowled in confusion. "How?"

Martin didn't bat an eyelash, though he did pause, apparently pondering how to ask me to take my shirt off.

With a wry chuckle and some internal embarrassment, I simply did it and tugged the bandages loose. Lucky for me, when they redid my bandages at the chapel before I left, I was wearing the proper underwear.

Jauffre cleared his throat and turned around.

Oh, that's sweet of you. "Kind of hard to fix the damage if you can't see it, right?" I asked, feigning nonchalance. As I undid the bandages – with help from Martin, as my burned hands made me very clumsy – I felt my ribs begin to throb. Apparently, the tight binding of the bandages was healing kept that at bay too. Damn. I'm falling apart. "And I might have some problems with my ribs. I thought the priests fixed them but they way they're throbbing…" I shrugged as best I could, immediately regretting it. Ow.

I grunted in pain, looking towards the ceiling, while trying to find a position in which I could sit without great discomfort. Martin finished removing the bandages. "What happened to you?" he asked quietly.

I explained in brief about the fight, the injuries, the blacking out, the return to Cheydinhal, glossing over a few of the details, wincing or even tearing up every so often, as he had to poke or prod at the injuries. "I'm really determined," I concluded redundantly.

"Have you…been feeling anything…anything _odd_?" Martin asked, stepping back to wash his hands. I don't blame him, once the bandages came off, we discovered the burns still wept. The priests really hadn't managed to fix them. I suspect this has to do with the fact they didn't have the full story on what cause the burns, but I stand by my decision not to tell them about the Mysterium Xarxes.

Best case scenario, they'd have confiscated it.

"Define odd." I answered seriously – if we go for the obvious, yes. "If you mean mood swings and surges of temper, yes. It's been…it's been kind of bad lately." I finished lamely. "So...sorry." I tacked on. I probably ought to apologize.

Watching Martin shrewdly, I saw his shoulders droop a little as he leaned on the pedestal upon which the basin rested.

"Can you fix it?" Unable to chew my nails, I began flaying my lip instead. "You _can_, can't you, Martin?" I asked quietly, when he didn't answer right away, feeling fear well up in me. In addition to fear of the injuries, I'm almost certain he knows more than he's telling, and it's bothering him. So, what's so bad he won't tell me about it, or feels as though he simply _can't_.

Martin suddenly snapped back to himself, turned and strode over. "I'll do what I can," he assured me simply. "But you'll need to take things easy for a few days, to make sure the healing takes. Hold still," he walked back over, put his hands on my shoulders then closed his eyes.

I hissed in pain, resisting another sudden violent urge – this time, to reach out and slam his head into the table upon which I sat. It felt like forever, sitting there and resisting the impulses to do nasty things to everyone in the room, but finally it passed.

"Ugh." I flopped backwards onto the table, before rolling onto my side, curling up and shaking. "Ow." Now I feel _really_ sick – like, hung-over sick. And ready to cry.

Martin's hand rested on my arm, though this time I didn't feel anything weird, just the usual sort of tingle and warmth. "I've stopped the damage's progress," he announced gently, "but you _do_ need to take it easy or a day or two. Injuries like these go deep, and the physical aspect heals from the surface inward, as opposed to traditional wounds." He stopped, seemingly teetering on the edge of adding something to this.

"Define taking it easy." I grunted, peering over my shoulder at him.

"The usual sensible precautions," he answered.

Martin, who do you think you're talking to? Sensible? Me? I almost smiled, though I felt a violent tremble run through me, before letting up. "So physically I'm fine?"

"Mostly." Martin answered.

"Good. Time to get back to Cheydinhal...uh…with your permission," I added to Jauffre, forcing myself to sit up.

"What's in Cheydinhal?" Jauffre asked, startled.

"No." Martin said firmly, having guessed why I needed to go back.

"There's no one else." I said, trying to remain calm. Fortunately, with the healing of the burns, now pale white against my skin, the flare of temper didn't feel so strong. Merely a flash of annoyance, but sharp.

"Let them train someone else," Martin argued, his blue eyes flashing.

"_There is no one else_, _Martin_!" I barked, biting my lip, and resisting the urge to cry. Blinking furiously I got back on my feet, unwilling to try to arguer from such a vulnerable position as lying down. "How many more people have to die because I'm not doing my job?!" I demanded quietly.

Realization crossed Martin's features.

"There's _more_?" Jauffre demanded.

Rather ashamed of my outburst – it's not Martin's fault, after all, and he_ did_ patch me up - I subsided into silence, looking at the floor, chewing on the barest tip of a thumbnail already bitten down. With a sigh I crossed my arms protectively over my chest. "It was my fault." I squeaked, looking up at Martin. Shaking my head. "I grabbed the book...but it was booby trapped…the statue crushed him…" I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry…

Dammit, there goes a tear. And another…I'm not usually this wishy-washy.

Then again, I've never lost anyone like that, either.

I jerked, startled when something touched my eyes. Martin had gathered a handful of his sleeve and was dabbing the tears from my face with it, his free hand closing bracingly around my upper arm. "You did what you could, Ailirah. You couldn't have known that would happen."

The words you want to hear, and don't want to hear. His tone, however, conveyed what the words themselves could not.

"It's my fault," I looked up at him, swallowing painfully.

"No," Martin squeezed my arm when I gave a disbelieving snort. "Would I lie to you?"

I reached up and rubbed the heel of my free hand in one eye, then the other. It's easier to just take it for granted – at the moment – that he isn't lying to me. That he at least, doesn't hold me responsible for a civilian casualty, even if I do. I won't say it makes me feel fine again, but it helps.

I still feel like shit, miserable, achy and tired. Not to mention _starving_. Maybe that's part of my problem – all this stuff would feed a general sense of gloom and despair, not to mention unbalanced reactions.

I gave a heavy sigh and looked back up at Martin, pasting on an attempt at a grin. "If I had a shirt on, I'd hug you Martin." I announced simply.

For a brief moment Martin's eyes left my face, where they had dutifully remained up until this point. It was probably just enough time to decide yes, definitely am a girl, before his eyes snapped back to my face.

He looked! I saw him look!

--A--

--Author's Notes Appended--

And now the other aspects of contact with the Mysterium Xarxes begin to come to light.


	31. Chapter 31

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Thirty-One

--A--

He's not happy. It doesn't take a scholar at the Arcane University to figure it out. Three days after I limped back into Cloud Ruler Temple with the Mysterium Xarxes in a backpack – it sounds stupid when I say it that way, possibly the most stupid thing I've ever done – I'm fit for duty and have permission to go back to Cheydinhal and close the Oblivion Gate there, if it's still open.

What I failed to mention, and I'm sure Martin suspects, is there's more than one Gate. For the first time, though, I actually feel pretty confident about doing this. I know the basics of the Gates on the inside. I have Frostreaver, I've got a spell Martin taught me for ice – so I don't dehydrate halfway through.

I actually feel well-prepared for doing this. The burns are healed, I don't ache in my ribs anymore. I only have to worry about weird dreams at night, and those are getting less and less…well. More weird and less nightmarish, truthfully.

The other thing is, people prefer to labor under the assumption I'm intending to round up some of my Fighters' Guild compatriots for help. The answer: uh-uh. Nope. This time, she's going solo. "You know, you're going to ruin your eyes, squinting like that," I remarked finally looking up from my breakfast to face Martin's scowl. He's worn that look since last night, when he realized I was perfectly serious about heading off to Cheydinhal today. I've watched him get more and more agitated – adding to the suspicion he's not telling me something I probably would want to know.

However, growing up with four brothers, I know not to press him for an answer before he's ready to give one. My brothers _always _gave me grief if I hassled them with 'what's the matter, you look really upset' or mad or fussy of what have you.

Staunchly ignoring his breakfast, the joke didn't even crack his scowl. "Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked quietly.

He's been oddly adamant that I should keep away from these Gates. If I felt he was telling me the whole story, I might consider listening to him. But as he's not willing to confide just yet, I'm going to do it. Contrary, aren't I? Four brothers – I know how to play these games. The end result of this is, he'll either tell me what's got him so worked up, or he'll learn to live with the fact that I feel a certain sense of duty and responsibility for these Oblivion Gates, since I have the skills and ability to do something about them.

Blame this mindset on my brothers too. Too many stories of honor, courage, knights and jousting while growing up. They'll even _admit to it_.

Admittedly though, and in Martin's defense, I think he's also a little worried I might get myself squished like a bug. My last mission didn't go over so well, after all. Fortunately, I feel perfectly normal – though if I get to close to that damned Mysterium Xarxes, my palms and stomach start to buzz uncomfortably.

"Want? No. Need to? Yes." I answered patiently. I appreciate the concern, I do. To the point I'll even be kind in my answers to him – because usually I interpret these conversations as my competence coming under question, and I'm sure that's not how he means it. He's seen me in a fight, I've seen him in a fight. We can both look after ourselves, by and large. "It's okay – I'm not storming the central stronghold. I promise," I gave him a grin, to see if I'd get one back.

I didn't, though I continued to smirk as I watched him prepare his argument. You know, if you'd just give me some logic, Martin, I'd take it under genuine consideration. I really do value your opinion.

"If you think you have to do this, because Jauffre or anyone expects you to…" He began.

Ooh…do I give that impression? "Wait a second, hold it. Right there. Is _that_ why you think I'm here?" I demanded, a little shocked and slightly nettled. This isn't the Legion, after all.

Martin blinked, apparently not having expected me to cut in so effectively.

"Do you really think I'd run all these stupid-ass risks just because some old guy with a sword and a fort in the mountains told me to?" There! His mouth twitched! He's trying not to smile! "I respect Jauffre, but not that much." Shaking my head I dropped my spoon into my oatmeal and pushed both away. "Doing what I'm told, because I'm told? That's what I do for the _Guild_ – and you know what kind of problems I'm having with them right now."

"Yes," Martin nodded.

"I'm _volunteering_," I said delicately, catching and holding Martin's gaze for emphasis. "It's _my_ choice." Yep, let's lay down the law here. However, despite his dislike of my choice, I can see my line of reasoning made _sense _to him_, _even if it still failed to please him. "Not Jauffre's. It's _mine_." Eyeing him I felt my annoyance flicker, but die instantly. How can I get mad, when he doesn't even realize what it means to me, to be _allowed _to volunteer –even for some crazy, pretty risky stuff?

To have a choice in the matter, and the ability to follow through with it? Yeah, I got beat up, I got hurt and scared, and at the time I really want to go home…but after the fact, when it's over…it was my choice. I did what I set out to do, and came back. Ugh – I can't even explain properly it in my own head.

"And that's _not_ stupid?" Martin asked with a bit of a smile. That seems to be his default coping strategy for me: amusement.

"No – it means if I get myself charbroiled, it's my own stupid fault, and I deserve to be treated like some rookie." I grinned. "Besides – how often does a person get the chance to go dungeon diving on Imperial Business – capital letters and all?" I winked at him. "And…" Sighing, I leaned forward on the table. "…don't take this wrong, but you need all the help you can get – I don't want to see another Kvatch any more than you do." Gently, Ailirah, gently. I think I've just about got him won over. "Can you imagine what Jauffre or Baurus would say, if _you_ suggested doing half the crazy shit I get to do?"

I imagine Jauffre would stroke out and Baurus would lock Martin up and throw away the key. "I imagine it would be…interesting to say the least." Martin allowed.

"Don't worry, you know I'd spring you out," I patted his wrist.

"How reassuring."

"Isn't it though?" I grinned.

Martin's smile faded, like a cloud passing over the sun. I got the impression I had just given him something to chew over. "You don't…really _enjoy_ all this, do you?"

I sighed, fiddling with my hair. "Well. That's kind of a trick question. It's scarier than anything…and there's some days when I just don't want to get out of bed…I could do without the headaches and the mood swings…but if I don't do it someone else with less experience will have to...and I'd be really upset if they got killed…I do take this seriously, you know," I offered for lack of anything better to say.

"I know." Martin took a moment to pat my wrist, as if he could see what was in my mind. It's not hard, after all. I still feel bad about losing the Argonian, but with the Mysterium Xarxes safely _away from_ _me, _and a few days of rest, I'm a little more philosophical about it. "_But_ I like that you and Jauffre _trust_ me enough to let me to it. Trust my skills. I like knowing that there's one less threat out there…and that I've made sure of it." Okay, so I'm trying to make him feel guilty. "The nightmares I could do without," I noted chipperly.

"Nightmares and worries." Martin sighed – I win. The argument's over.

"You worry about me?" I asked cheekily.

Martin shook his head before looking down at his breakfast. "Only when the weather's bad."

"Where I am or where you are?" I teased, glad to get back to some sense of normalcy.

"Both." Martin answered without looking at me, though I could tell by his tone he wasn't really upset. Just…worried. I could tell he was actively looking for something in my face, much as one might consult a mirror when checking for bruises.

I chuckled again, pleased by his answer, but anxious for him not to worry too much. I _do_ take all this seriously, even if I didn't always _act _like I do. "Well, guess I'll have to be a little more careful, then. You've got enough to worry about. Remember to wash your hands after touching that nasty, filthy, icky book." I announced with mock gravity, wagging a finger at him.

Martin groaned before he put a hand over his face, trying desperately not to laugh. "I suppose if you're making jokes like that, I shouldn't waste the energy worrying." he announced, his voice a little muffled.

"Oh, but the waste of energy is greatly appreciated. See? I _like _knowing I'm not being sent on suicide missions because you guys are trying to get rid of me." I responded glibly, without missing a beat, batting my eyes innocently at him.

He was turning pink form the effort of not laughing at my audacity. And who said today's supposed to be gloomy and angsty?

I leaned forward. "Martin?" I whispered, grinning manically at him. "You're gonna blow something out. Like your _eardrums_ if you don't let that laugh out. Come on," I teased, pulling a face at him. Immature, but it works, and I can't bear to break out the 'I was half-dressed and you looked!' argument, to see if he blushes. I'll bet he's cute when he does.

I'm my own brand of evil. I know.

Martin finally gave in, and burst out laughing before giving me an incredulous look as he did so, shaking his head. "And we're trusting the safety of the empire to you.." he teased, once he could breathe properly.

I didn't take offense. He didn't mean it to be offensive. "_No_…" I answered solely, giving him a sly look, before leaning forward. "We're trusting the safety of the empire to _you_…and you _delegated_." I ended in an almost accusatory whisper.

"Hmm…_that_ might be a bad administrative decision." Martin announced thoughtfully, almost seriously. However, the glitter in his eyes gave away that he's still joking. It's easier to joke with me, than to fight with me. And it's more fun.

"Too late now…" I snickered. "Speaking of late, you're great at stalling. Remember that when the Elder Council tries to tie your hands," I got up.

Martin sighed, though without a trace of guilt. More a mild amusement at getting caught. "I tried."

"Yes, you did and very admirably." I reached across the table to pat his shoulder, a gesture I feel very comfortable with, even if it's pretty informal. "I do appreciate it, by the way." Sitting back down I leaned heavily on the table. "Do you want to tell me what you're _really _worried about_?_ I don't like hearing the 'it's for your own good' brand of argument. You know that. And you know I'm not really buying it." I made the words as gentle as possible, so as not to put him on the defense.

Unfortunately for me, he seems to have expected this.

"You were badly burned by a powerful Daedric artifact, Ailirah. Now you want to go traipsing about in a realm with similar powers and attributes," Martin answered seriously, after a long pause in which he apparently decided to level with me. "Does that sound…" he stopped. The word is '_stupid'_ but I don't think he wants to sue it in a serious discussion.

"'Stupid yet'?" I offered.

"Not stu…" he frowned under my knowing smirk. "Well, yes, if you really want to know, I think this is _very_ stupid." Martin answered simply.

"I'm not going to argue. It's probably not the brightest idea I've ever had. But, we're in a holding pattern here, and if you want to know the truth," I beckoned him closer, leaning forward until our noses were inches apart. "Don't tell anyone, but I don't like that book. I'm scared of it. And I want to spend as much time away from it as I can – so for me, the Gates are preferable."

His sudden change in expression made me realize I gave myself away.

"I knew it," he poked my shoulder. "How many, this time?"

"You know what I meant," I dodged my blunder. "I haven't gotten upset about you wanting to pour over that book, and figure out what all the scribbles mean. Do you think _that's _any less dangerous? Trust me, if it wasn't hypocritical, I'd be telling you the same thing you're telling me: _don't do it!_"

"I can…ah." He stopped, the phrase 'I can take care of myself' or something similar dying. It's exactly what I've said all along, so I smiled at him. Martin had the grace to look guilty. "I _can_ ward myself against its influences," he answered a little stubbornly.

"And I'm good at fighting things. And, I'm learning about _strategy_ when I fight. That's _got _to count for something." I assured him. "I'd offer to make a deal with you – you stay away from the book, I'll stay out of the Gates, but we both know that wouldn't ever work."

Martin blinked and I blinked back at him, a conscious gesture. "Be careful." He said finally, looking down at his untouched breakfast.

"You too." I smiled for him, before remembering he couldn't see it.

He looked up sharply, as if just now realizing something. "They're not red…"

"Huh?" What's not red?

"Your eyes are brown." Martin said, as if his wits had suddenly fuzzed over, his whole expression crinkling with confusion.

"Yeah," I nodded, confused. "only Dunmer and Daedra have red eyes…and vampires, but I'm not…" I stopped. I'm babbling.

Martin blinked several times, then looked like he'd just gotten a punch to the stomach.

"Are you okay?" I asked, genuinely worried.

Martin sighed. "Yes, I'm fine."

He's lying. But, if you want to get technical, so am I. "Take care of yourself while I'm gone." I announced simply, getting to my feet, gathering up my dishes and dropping them off. Glancing back over my shoulder, I saw Martin disappearing towards the small chapel of Talos.

A memory of red eyes in a mirror flickered I my mind. How did he know about that? The strong suspicion is, he's not telling me something. The question is, why?

Ugh – I'll save it for when I get back. Something in his posture makes me suspect I may just get my questions answered when I get back.

--A--


	32. Chapter 32

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Thirty-Two

--A--

I am naïve. I am naïve to the point of idiocy. Have you ever felt the first twinge of a cold, thought 'oh, I'm okay, it'll pass' and the next thing you know, you're flat out wishing you could just _die_, because it would be too painful to live?

Who said it was only colds that sneak up like that?!

Lying on the grass north of Cheydinhal, shaking as though I were dying of cold, I realized Oblivion is _exactly the same. _I felt _fine_ through the whole trip – a little overheated, a little uncomfortable, moderately cranky and my arms are sore (those Dremora are pretty beefy boys – just like my brothers only hostile.) However, once I was back _here,_ to Nirn, I started to feel it. The temper wavering in the back of my mind waiting for a reason to flare to life, the way the air here is simply too cold, the headache, nausea, the whole bit.

All I want to do right now is lie here and _die_ – it'll be less painful.

Martin. Whatever you know, you're telling me when I get back. I mean it. Ugh…

Rolling onto my knees, careful not to move too quickly, I clambered to my feet, dismissing Frostreaver before stretching – still careful though, so as not to make the nausea any worse. One down, two to go. I'm going to have to stop in Cheydinhal to rest and eat – behind the nausea I feel the rumblings of a stomach demanding a second bout of breakfast. Or a double bout of lunch. I'm not going to try another Gate feeling this lousy.

That's stupid to the point of suicide.

After popping my neck and back, I began the long walk down to Cheydinhal, the acrid burnt smell of Oblivion lingering in my nostrils.

--A--

Cheydinhal bustled with industry, the only clue to the horrors blazing outside the walls manifesting as a sort of hurried urgency in the tasks of the populace. It's a lovely place, very calm, very quiet. It's not as expensive to live here and Skingrad, but it's decidedly more elegant. It also houses an additional reason for my not wanting to leave these Gates open, too close to the city.

I can't just leave it there, partly because everyone knows the Count's son is an idiot. No, I'm sorry, he's just _brainless_. If I didn't have common sense and a good sword-arm, the mer and I would a have a lot in common. Farwil is the type who would probably traipse into one dragging a loyal contingent of followers, getting them as well as himself killed, and we _really_ don't need any more political unrest.

"Lirah!"

Oh no…turning around I saw the last person on the face of the planet I wanted to see just now. My massive bear of a brother, Rogerik, hurrying towards me. As Roge got closer he stopped squinting – Roge really needs spectacles for distances, it's why he stopped archery as a teenager – or so I'm told.

Smiling in greeting – while desperately working how not to spill my guts like a spineless worm like last time – I was spared any immediate speech when Roge snatched me up in the crook of one elbow, so I dangled helplessly as he gave me a rib-cracking squeeze.

They think because they _can_ they _should_…oof! Oh ow, ow! I mean it! Don't do that! I just got them _fixed_!

Elbowing Roge very hard, his grip eased in response. Bless my Nordic bones as well as the fact I grew up with this sort of 'killing kindness'.

Putmedownputmedownputmedown!

"There you are! We were bloody worried!" My ribs groaned again as Roge tugged on a straying curl before carefully setting me on the ground – a little clumsily since he had to stoop to do it, keeping a firm grip on my shoulder as he steered us towards the Guildhall. The last thing I want right now is to fight with Roge – the last Gate _wore me out_, I'm really starting to feel it.

Oh, wow! I know what this is like! It's like a _sunburn_. You feel great and the minute you slow down…you just want to roll over and get some sleep. Martin and I are _definitely_ going to discuss this – I'm going to pick his brain when I get home.

Back. When I get _back_.

Letting Roge guide me back towards the guildhall, I struggled to make sure I was in a mindset for an argument. See, when my brothers and I fight there's a lot of yelling and not much logic involved. "I see you've brought all your gear with you," I remarked dryly, eyeing the heavy wooden staff and the massive great axe, both hooked to his backpack.

Closer examination showed me burns. And a lingering smell of something acrid that wasn't coming from me. Squinting I noticed a faint reddish gleam in his eyes. Holy crap, there's only one thing that could mean…he's gone into one of those Gates…so how come he's in such a good mood?!

I got out hours ago and I still feel kind of cranky. However, the gleam in his eyes made me wonder about the glimmers of red I've seen in days past. I didn't bother to check, I'm pretty sure I know what I'll see: a shade of red not too far removed from brown. Martin's puzzlement over my eye color begins to make sense. He's got a lot of talking to do when I get back.

"Well, I've been busy," Roge shrugged, thinking himself clever to use my own words on me. It showed in the way he grinned, watching me from the corners of his eyes to see my reaction to this.

"Yes," I nodded, narrowing my eyes as well. "Which Gate did you get?" I demanded shortly, irritated without real reason. Craaap.

"How did you know…oh…" he caught sight of the damage to his armor, and the shiny burn on the back of his hand. Roge hates wearing gloves – Jules insists on it. Then his skin turned vividly red, as he looked down at me, his eyes locking into mine. I knew it – discernibly red eyes. "You haven't!" He gasped, his expression far to accusatory for my liking.

"Roge, we're in the middle of a crowded street, all I have to do is scream a couple well-placed words and not only will I get away, you'll have to convince to the Watch you're a law-abiding citizen," I snarled softly. "I don't think they've quite forgotten the time where you…" So it's blackmail. It's okay – we're family.

"Okay, okay," Roge held up his hands in surrender, though his expression clearly stated we'd argue once we were indoors. "Let's go. Walk faster."

"My legs are shorter than yours," I announced, refusing to pick up my pace. My smile vanished, as temper began to swirl in earnest around the inside of my head like a whirlpool.

The old feeling of suffocating in silence, the bitter resentment of the unnamed frustrations, the utter desperation to feel _free_ of the shackles I allowed myself to wear for so many years rose up like bile in my throat. It's starting again. He's going to drag me back to the guildhall and I'll never get out, ever again. Like a bird in a cage, or a tiger in a pen…_no_. It's my life, dammit, and he's going to have to accept it. If not, I'll punch him square in the jaw – Roge has a glass jaw – and leave him on the guildhall floor. I'm not going back to that. I may have to learn to live by the rules and regs of the Blades, may have to watch my mouth around my superior…but other than that I've finally tasted the freedom I've wanted, something I haven't named or articulated for so long. I'm not giving it up. Not without the fight of the century.

Sweat began to bead on my forehead, slipping down my back beneath my chainmail and clothes. I'd call him a bastard, but I don't like to insult my parents, or their integrity.

The guildhall provided welcome relief from the sun – or I expect it would. Rather, I felt as if I suddenly passed under a dark shadow, gooseflesh pricking all up and down my sweaty back. My eyes adjusted quickly to the sudden gloom. I noticed Roge still squinted, blinking away the effects of the sunlight for some time after my eyes made the shift.

"We need to talk, Lirah." Roge announced heavily, once the door closed behind us. Hunching slightly Roge crossed his arms. I could tell he meant to give me the benefit of the doubt. He doesn't want to think about me fighting Dremora. The problem is Roge – like the others – doesn't trust me to look after myself.

Maybe that's why I keep getting hurt – I don't know my own limits because no one let me _find_ them. It's not an excuse, I'll simple have to keep at it, and remember _strategy_. Those Dremora aren't exactly blockheads – and if they are, it's in the same mold as my idiot brother. I should have an unfair advantage – I simply need to find it.

I can't believe I'm already this miffed with him. We haven't even started in earnest yet.

"Oh yeah?" I asked with as much neutrality as I could manage, eying Roge closely. Time to see if I've picked up any tricks from Martin's bag of politics. I knew I should have paid closer attention when he turns into a political shark – not that I've ever seen political shark, come to think of it. More like…political spider.

Still – as long as Martin's not doing it to me, it's hilarious. I can't wait to see the first time the Elder Council wants him to do something he doesn't want to do. They're not going to know what hit them – old hands at the political game or not.

Oh, wait. It's not my place, it's not part of my job. Hmm. Still – it'll be interesting.

"Yeah – we're swamped back home. Jules is running so short-handed he's about ready to start recruiting from _the Legion_." Roge scowled. "He doesn't want to – and you've got to admit," this is Roge attempting tact. A new trick for him. If I had a cookie or something, I'd let him have it, for the effort. Seeing him try tact made me smile, though perhaps not in a nice way. "Those legion guys are pretty knuckle-headed."

He thinks the Legion is pretty well useless on the whole. I disagree, they simply are tied up with more rules and regs than we of the guild, and when we hire ex-legionnaires there's usually a reason why they're _ex_-legionnaires. Hell, even the Blades have fewer rules and regs, even if we pretend we don't.

However, if it comes to knuckle-headed, they'll fit right in with us. Trust me. "Look, Roge," I began slowly, eying Roge's earnest features. He's picked up a couple more scratches since I last saw him. That scar on his eyebrow is new, he looks like he caught a shield-edge to bridge of his nose, just below his brow line. Somehow he looks more..._human_. I can't even explain why I thought that just now. "Roge, I'm kind of in the middle of a project right now," I announced carefully.

I can't imagine Jauffre or anyone else too pleased if I tell Roge _exactly _what I'm doing.

"So?" Roge shrugged, shaking his head. "Jules needs you, Lirah – he's got half a dozen artifact recoveries and guess who's the top candidate for them? The right woman for the right job." Roge knows I love dungeon diving, he helped feed my habit for it as a kid. We used to make weekend trips of it – equal shares all around. "The _best_ woman for the job." He added, mistaking my silence as indecision.

Damn I miss the good old days.

No. The realization was painful, but at the same time…uplifting. No, I _don't_ miss the good old days – by and large. I miss dungeon diving as a job. But I like…_love_ not feeling so _suffocated._ I like the feeling there's faith, even _marginal_ faith, in my abilities to get things done – even if I have to come limping home.

Back. Come limping back – what's with me today? I'm not usually this clingy.

And more than that, I like people treating as an equal, a compatriot, rather than a mascot. I like knowing people worry, but won't a stop me from doing my job, if I can provide even one good reason. I feel…like I have less to prove to the world. The heavy scrutiny is gone – I can be good at what I do, without anyone crying foul.

Come to think of it, most of the bad habits I got off my brothers have almost disappeared – my language is still a little rough, but the picking fights, the drinking and the attitudes have sort of subsided. Shaking my head, I pulled myself from my reverie – it's making my head hurt. "I can't just quit- you know that," I responded, still cheerful in tone, even if the genuine cheer had already slipped away.

I need my head to stay pain-free – how do you stop a headache, and the growing resentment that's fueling it? "So, what are you here for?" I change the track of the conversation before Roge could get wound up. "The Gates, I assume."

"Oh, yeah." Roge blinked, then produced a Sigil Stone. He offered it to me, but I shook my head. Frowning worriedly, he put it back into his bandolier. "Jules wanted a firsthand account, so here I am. Got one down –those things are bad news, Lirah," he sighed heavily, shaking his head. "Never see so many ugly bastards in one place – even back in Leyawiin." The joke is I got all the looks in my family, which isn't true. My scruffy brothers clean up pretty well. They just choose _not to_.

"The account is, hot as hell – and _I_ was dispatched to handle the Gate, with help or solo," I announced dryly. "I got the one north of here so which…"

Roge laughed. Unsurprising really, but my lip curled into a sneer, resentment bubbling up faster than I can stomp it down. "What's funny, Roge?" I asked darkly, a horse note creeping into my voice, clawing at my throat. What's funny indeed: just because I got my ass kicked by cultists, I can't take on Daedra? I'm learning, and with the Daedra, it's not eight all at once.

Hm. Maybe I should reevaluate that statement – it seems…backwards, somehow.

Roge choked on his own laugh, goggling at me as realization on my seriousness set in. "You…you're not…_serious_?" His eyes widened as he gaped at me. "You…" I nodded. "you went…" I nodded again, nonplussed and not amused. "More than one?" His shoulders slumped a little – class case of him failing to protect Baby Sister, I can practically see the thoughts on his face.

Glowering back I waited for it to hit. Here it comes – he's going to explode. Three…two – it's sad how I can count down to this…

"_What the hell do you think you're doing?!_" Roge bellowed, his voiced riddled with faint traces of Thu'um, which brought the rest of the guild crowding into the doorways, looking surprised. If he could master the Thu'um, he'll be set. "Who the hell's sending you into those damned Gates?"

He went on like this for a few minutes while my temper brewed, steeping like tea, getting stronger and more bitter with each syllable. The way he goes on, my fingernails began to sink into my palms, the more I sound like some _incompetent _halfwit, bumbling around Cyrodiil.

And you wonder why I finally left home.

"That's it! Get on home, Lirah! Enough fooling around!" Roge barked, sounding as thought he would tie Jauffre into intricate knots, if he knew who Jauffre was. He'd probably do the same to Martin, if he could.

"_Excuse me_?" I asked, a dangerous note creeping into my voice as my temper began to break free of its restraints, my heart hammering in my ears, making my headache pulse like an angry energy all its own. My appetite vanished as my skin began grew warm, but didn't produce sweat. "What did you tell me?" I don't have to take this.

I'm six and twenty years of age, dammit! _It's my life!_

"Go home, Lirah!" Roge snapped, flapping his arms like a gooseherd to shuffle me out ahead of him.

"No." I growled softly, feeling heat well up behind my eyes. Given the gasp from Keld, who stood behind Roge facing me, I was sure my eyes suddenly shifted scarlet. Roge saw it too, his skin paling slightly. Planting my feet I braced for a fight.

I'm not going _anywhere_.

"I said 'get your ass home'!" Roge pointed towards the door of the guildhall. "You're not _well_!" he managed to articulate, albeit lamely.

"_Stop ordering my life, Roge_!" I roared, making him jump, as I took two aggressive steps forward banged my fist harmlessly off his breastplate, a resonant clang ensuing. I felt my knuckles ache form the blow, but ignored the pain, too angry to care. "You're not my father!" _Clang._ "You're not my _keeper_!" _Clang_! "Get the hell out of my way and let me do my job!"

"Your job is with the guild!" Roge shouted, jostling sonorously as he bumped into the wall, having run out of room to back up.

"Oi!" Burz rumbled. One of my main detractors, his intervention is unsurprising.

"I've had just about enough of _you_, _jekosiit_," I snarled, pivoting to face him.

For many years Burz's unreasonable dislike of me, of my presence in the guild hurt. There was , _is_ no reason for it – though there _is_ a reason he's so far from Leyawiin, it's best Julius could do - I think it's just jealousy. I've met intelligent orcs – Burz isn't one. Bumph doesn't like him either, it's not just me. For the first time in years, I simply don't _care. _This is a family spat – butt out.

Burz's expression changed from 'go home little girl' to 'oh hell it's a monster'. Pointing a warning finger at him, I shook my head, lips pursed. Ohtimbar looked from Burz to me, then to Roge and finally to Keld, nodding approvingly.

"Yeah – lay off her!" Roge snapped at Burz, who this time backed up. "Let's go, Lirah."

"Forget it, Roge! I'm fully grown! I'm not incompetent! I'm not your _pet_!" The pain showed more ragged in my voice, replacing the anger. Years and years of bitter resentment exploded out of me, fortunately not manifesting as tears. I don't want to cry in front of my brother or these people. "And I'm not Jules' damned _mascot_! So _you _run _your_ ass home, and tell him to stop riding me, or I'm going to get _angry_!"

I'm already angry, but it was unlike any surge of anger, any temper problems the Gates had created before. This was tempered by a release of pain, of resentment. But beneath both of these I felt the savage roil of something…I don't know. It's frightening in intensity, though.

"You can't…" Roge began, his expression shocked, hurt, and worried.

"Don't you _dare _tell me what I can and can't do, Rogerik." I snarled, my eyes throbbing in time with my headache. "How many Gates have you been through?" I asked, managing to contain myself. An echoing wish to tear out Roge's throat helped bring me back to myself. That's not like me…I love Roge, mad as I am, unhappy as I was. I can't fault him for wanting to protect me…

Roge blinked at the change in conversation, then answered, hoping to keep the waters calm. "Four. Took Brutus with me for the ones near Leyawiin." He answered quietly.

"And…And have you had any…any problems?" Swallowing I forced myself to look up at him.

Roge cottoned on. "It like a sunburn, Lirah," he said gently, assuming this was my first. "It goes away. It always goes away. You'll be okay, you know." He offered, holding out a hand that would rest reassuring on my shoulder, if I'd only walk up to him.

I've never felt this bad, though. This at odds with myself. The Gates never used to affect me this badly. "Right…"

"Maybe…you should let me do this last one…or we can do it together," Roge offered hesitantly, not eager to set me off again. I noticed, here, the other guild members took opportunity as I regained a sense of calm to retreat from the scene.

"I'm not going back to Leyawiin afterwards, Roge. I've got other duties to attend to." I announced, waving a dismissive hand toward his arm. I'm not walking over there – I just got myself under control..

Roge remained silent for a few moments then shook his head. "You can't hardly hold your temper and you want to go fight Dremora?"

"Who better?" I asked reasonably, my skin still hot, my head still aching, but not a debilitating ache. "Besides..." Enter the slyness. "You and I both know I won't stay put, just because you told me to." He looked shocked I'd take this track of argument with him. "And isn't it better, to know where I am, and what I'm doing? Even if it's only for a little while?"

Roger truly looked like he regretted the whole 'let's do it together' big brother talk.

"There's a lot of high ledges, Roge, and you know how I am about heights," I added before I could stop myself. Those are the magic words, and I could tell they hurt, but they also made up Roge's mind. He looked ready to fight with me again, the aftereffects of Oblivion still working on him – though they seemed less strong in effect than in my case. "Let's go," he grunted, his face sullen as he elbowed the door open and took off.

Following him, I fished out a packet of waybread and began to chomp on it, as if violent chewing could alleviate my frustration. Damn it – I'm too miffed to feel hungry, but i know if i don't eat now, I'll regret it later.

Unease flickered as Roge and I left the city, heading for the last Gate, the places where the Mysterium Xarxes had burned me tingling uncomfortably. I've got a very bad feeling about that book. It has nothing to do with the fact it's in the same place as Martin. I just hope he was telling the truth about warding himself against it…because whatever else he says, I begin to think the damage wasn't skin deep. It may be coincidence…but it just seems to me like all my symptoms got worse _after _contact with the book. Roge has done as many Gates as I, and he's all right.

I'm not stupid. Martin's obvious withholding of information makes me suspect even more. A smarter person would let Roge handle the Gate by himself. But then again, I never claimed to be a smart person.

I'm simply not stupid.

--A--


	33. Chapter 33

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Thirty-Three

--A--

After Roge and I closed the last Gate – a feat made quite easy by Roge's presence and his massive axe – we returned to the Guild to rest, before going our separate ways. Roge acquiesced to this all too quietly, making me quite certain he meant to come up with an argument or plan to get me to do my duty to the Guild. Well, fortunately for me, Roge is a sound sleeper, so even with all of us resting uneasily in the guildhall dorm – Ohtimbar saw me leave, though to my surprise didn't raise any alarm – I slipped out easily enough.

Maybe I ought to reevaluate my opinion of him.

Still, slipping out late at night allowed me an early start. It's a bit of a trip to get from Cheydinhal to Bruma – let alone Cloud Ruler Temple – usually it takes about two days. However, I felt oddly alert and made good use of the excess energy, arriving in the late afternoon.

The population of Cloud Ruler Temple had increased again, for I was greeted by three men I'd never seen before in my life, who weren't thrilled about letting me in, until Baurus – hearing me shouting a fairly well-reasoned argument (trying not to give my temper a reason to reassert) – came and told them I was the Gate-closer in residence (I couldn't believe he said that!) and the dumb rookies should let me in.

Okay, Baurus didn't call them 'dumb rookies', that was me. Still.

"Thanks, Baurus," I grunted, shifting my head wrap back so my face was visible. It's strange how I actually feel like I've come _home_, instead of simply _back_. There's an appreciable difference in returning from a mission to Leyawiin, and returning from a mission to Cloud Ruler Temple. Both are fairly sunny, have lot of big guys with weapons and armor hulking around - I meant this affectionately – and both have a bunk with my name on it. However, as I walked up to Baurus, I felt no apprehension in connection with my return.

Baurus made to respond – probably with a joke, or nudge to the ribs - but the moment I had the garment off his eyes bulged, alarm replacing his smile of welcome. For a moment I felt wrong-footed before remembering why he was giving me that look.

"Ah, it's just the Gates, it'll wear off," I grinned, waving off his shock with a good imitation of my usual smile. I don't feel like smiling – I'm starting to feel the trip from Cheydinhal to here – I'm happy, I'm in a fairly good mood, just not good enough to go around beaming like an idiot. I really should have broken the trip up. Oh well – it's not like it's done any harm. It's not a Gate – just a long walk. "Where's Martin?" I asked, looking around at the sparring blades, half-expecting to find him out practicing.

"Sleeping." Baurus answered. "Cyrus is keeping an eye on him." Then with a heavy sigh Baurus took off his helmet, running a hand through his hair. "It's that damned book - I know he says he's got himself warded, but still. It wears him out pretty quick." Baurus scowled, his dark eyebrows knitting together.

Grimacing I nodded. Septim men – so far as I know – are a stubborn lot. Emperor Uriel certainly was – the Ailirah-shaped hole in the wall is a testimony to that stubbornness. "But he's okay?"

"I guess – I haven't noticed anything weird." Baurus gave me another look, as if acquainting himself with the change in my appearance. "Are you sure you're okay?" He asked. I could tell from his tone if I said yes, he'd accept 'yes' as an answer. If I said no, well, he'd probably not know what to do, but I appreciate the willingness to try.

"I'm fine. Really," I gave him the most truthful answer I could. I am fine, by and large, "Just a little tired. I ran into Roge – you know, one of my brothers - in Cheydinhal, and had to give him the slip." I answered, rubbing my neck.

"Ailirah..." Baurus began, but stopped, seeing my expression. I knew this has nothing to do with my well-being, he accepted my 'yes' and moved onto the next topic.

"I know. I know," I nodded with a sigh. "If I know Roge, he'll raise hell, but he can't do much else. I…I'm ready to tell Jules I'm out, if it comes to that."

Baurus nodded, still watching my face closely. I didn't see mistrust, per se, just…concern.

Swallowing hard, I met Baurus eyes, noting how very quickly he looked away. "They're still red, aren't they?" I asked, looking back down at the ground.

"Ah, yeah," Baurus said quickly. "No offense, but you look ready to tear the arms off a _daedroth_." He's half-joking, testing the waters.

"Nah, just my brother." I grinned for real this time, and watched Baurus relax a little. My temper settled down hours ago, to a vague rumble of 'I'm still lurking' in the back of my mind. "Don't worry about my problems with the Guild. I'll…I'll do what I've got to do." I announced, feeling cold creep into my stomach. I'll do what I have to do – in this case it looks like I may just be out of the Guild. "But Martin's been practicing, right?" I asked, picking the first topic I could to change the conversation away from my apparently altered appearance and my problems with my family. Or my real job, depending on how you look at it.

"_No_." Baurus shook his head. "Not since you left for Cheydinhal. Spends most of his day poring over that book – doesn't like being distracted. Jauffre doesn't like it. _I_ don't like it." Baurus crossed his arms, shaking his head. "Maybe you can get him to take a break."

Smirking I shrugged. I'll just _annoy_ him to the point he'll capitulate, if only for the opportunity to take a couple of swings at me. It's not a tactic I've used yet, but it's served me well in the past. Besides – we're going to war – supposedly – he needs to keep practicing. I practiced tricks with magelights and basic lessons all the way from the Roxy Inn to the turnoff near Bruma.

"Anything else I might need or want to know?" I asked, popping my neck in a 'go get 'em' attitude.

Baurus shrugged, but he smiled at the enthusiasm. I get the feeling the ambiance in this bastion of Blades is getting a little…tense. I don't blame them, but I don't plan on adding to it. If this is part of the Dagon-Camoran plan to make us all paranoid, it's working.

Fetchers.

"Rols and Caro are pulling together a game of cards after dinner," Baurus shrugged. "Caro and Cyrus miss you."

"Why, because I'm a pigeon?" I teased, remembering the mercifully short-lived nickname. It didn't appear to upset me, so it didn't last. Ah, the benefits of growing up with brothers!

Baurus grinned. "Probably."

So, I take it this game is open to the public?" I asked, winking at him.

"You know Caro, she'll be glad to have you." Baurus answered. "Though, you might want to duck – she was a little miffed when you went traipsing about to close Gates without her. She still wants to give it a try."

Hmm – I dunno, but Caro might just be Roge's kind of girl. That's a little scary, actually, I don't want to think about it. Ugh…

--A--

Getting cleaned up after coming back gave me my first opportunity to see what everyone else saw – and frankly, I don't blame them for getting nervous. I look like shit! My eyes _haven't_ returned to soft brown from the current garnet-red. There's also something less easy to define, a sort of shadow over my features, and one I don't like. Something…feral. It's not a physical change, more a change in demeanor. I actually managed to startle myself.

However, as promised, the pale splotches of book-burned flesh healed-over were finally gone, as if I had never touched the Mysterium Xarxes. However, Martin's warning about the damage healing from the outside in took on new dimensions and dreadful implications.

Despite my worries, I didn't really want to wake him up. I also didn't want to know where that damned book was, as long as it wasn't in the same place as him. Nasty thing that it is, I'll bet its power can creep into you while you're sleeping, undefended…but no. He's not _that_ stupid. I'm not even that dumb.

Feeling better with this decision I began to clean up, only mildly dismayed when, once I was done, to find my eyes _still_ hadn't shifted back to brown. They seemed unalterably stuck at garnet red. I hope it's not permanent. As if I need another distinguishing characteristic.

--A--

Of the players at this card game I knew two – Caro and Rols. Cyrus and Baurus were keeping an eye on Martin's door – rumor mill says Baurus only goes off duty when Jauffre needles him about needing rest, like any other human. Jauffre, of course, doesn't join the 'kids' when they decide to play – though when I told him the three gates near Cheydinhal were closed, as well as the fact I only did one solo, Jauffre expressed pleasure at my apparent discovery of tactical intelligence, and the sentiment I should continue to cultivate said skill sets.

I think it works out to a compliment – he did use a lot of big words, back to back to back. He grinned the whole time, so think he was picking on me – but I can't prove it. Oh well.

Regardless of Jauffre and his eccentricities – as well as his agreement Martin should resume his swordsmanship training if only to get him away from 'that evil book' - I could use either Baurus or Cyrus' company _right now_. This card game isn't nearly as fun as I expected. In fact, given the choice I think I'd take another scholar session with Tar-Meena over it.

Fifteen minutes into the game I couldn't take it anymore. The air of discomfiture and unsettledness hung like cobwebs in a tomb, thick as Colovian pumpkin soup, and there is no doubt in my mind as to why everyone is so uptight. I would expect as much from the five Blades I didn't know – but to see the unease from Caro and Rols, well. That hurt.

A lot.

What hurt worse were the expressions punctuating the unease – a sort of guilt at feeling so uncomfortable around a person previously defined as 'friend'. People get jittery around strange things, and I suppose I begin to fall into that category. It's not like Baurus or Cyrus, the others simply don't know me as well.

Finally, I folded, unwilling to tough it out, unable to inflict my presence where it so obviously caused discomfort. "Sorry guys." I announced, contriving to sound more tired than I actually felt. "I'm done," polite invitations to stick around for a few more rounds gave way to polite 'good nights' as I waved them away, retreating towards the silent solace of the barracks, successfully ignoring the blatant relief on the five strangers, whose names I never asked for, nor was ever given.

I don't care about stranger's opinions of me too much, unless they're Fighters' Guild clients. What I did care about was the unexpected tension between Rols, Caro and myself. The walk back to the barracks seemed mercifully short – I didn't bother conjuring a light to find my bunk, navigating the clearing gloom as my eyes adjusted quickly. It's amazing how well I can still see, albeit in shades of gray only, closing my eyes to block out the darkened dormitory. In the back of my mind I wonder: does this increase in dark-vision mean my eyes glow?

No sooner had I settled down in my bunk – Ugh, I miss my former futon, the mattresses are a little too soft – then a hushed voice hailed me from the darkness. "Hey – you're the one who closes the Gates…right?" A male voice, a little uncertain, but apparently certain enough of my identity to ask.

With the rearrangement of the barracks, the setup with screens dividing the guys' and and the women's end has broken down to 'grab and claim a bunk wherever you can'. Not that it matters much, though I do miss the futon. The proper mattress feels funny.

"Yeah, that's me," I sighed, without shifting my position. I suddenly wished I opted to go outside for awhile, sit on the wall and enjoy the evening, rather than hide here in the barracks. At least outside I could find quiet, solace in silence. I'll have to see if there are any dark quiet places to hide tomorrow, if there's nothing better for me to do.

"They say it's a precursor to war." I'll bet this guy's some kind of rookie, too. Someone's apprentice until very recently. "A war with the Daedra…is it?"

"It's not an invitation to breakfast." I answered wryly, relived to hear a nervous snicker from a few beds over. Despite my own miry mood, I felt a jolt of relief from it in that titter of laughter, but the relief was short-lived.

"They say you were at Kvatch too." The lad pressed, a bed frame creaking as he presumably moved to get a better look at me. Good luck with that, it's mercifully too dark for normal human eyes.

Blades talk a lot; I think it has to do with the secrecy of so much of their work. They talk twice as much when they can – making up for all they aren't normally allowed to say, I suppose, while in the company of their own. I can't fault them, but this is almost as awkward as the card game I left. "I was."

"What was it like?" He asked, voice tinged with apprehension, and the fear of getting sent into a Gate.

"They won't send you by yourself." I assured, remembering my first solo trip. Difficult, yes, but I've discovered treating it like a dungeon dive sort of helps. After all, my area of specialization is artifact recovery – and from a certain point of view that's exactly what retrieving a Sigil Stone _is_. Speaking of which, what am I supposed to do with those silly things? I can't keep collecting them.

"But you go alone."

Damn. He found the flaw in my argument. "How'd you know that?" I asked, without hinting I wished he'd simply kept his mouth shut. I didn't make a big fuss about what I was off to do – as far as most people knew, I was probably headed for Bruma, or something, until the duration of my absence made it clear I wasn't in Bruma after all.

"Asked Cyrus."

I didn't ask why he'd inquired of Cyrus, and I can't say I care. I'm not looking for notoriety, but I get the sudden very cold, very _bad _feeling whether I want it or not is irrelevant. "Well, not everyone's stupid enough to try it," I answered blandly. "And I wasn't alone; I rendezvoused with my older brother in Cheydinhal." Half-true, but I don't want this kid getting any weird ideas. Sounds like I might be too late.

_They'll call you Gatewalker, before the end._

_Who?_

_Everyone. _

Martin's words echoed back to me right on cue, making my stomach tremble. Rolling into my side, facing away from the voice I sighed. "Don't believe everything you hear. People around here like to talk."

The voice subsided into silence. Opening my eyes I began to trace idle patterns on my bedspread, trying to keep feelings of pain, resentment, and disappointment at bay. I can only hope Jauffre and Martin take this change a little better.

I'm losing faith my new look will go away.

--A--

_It's a Gate. No, it's worse…I'm suffocating…dying…ashes. Everything's ash…nooooo!_

_Whack_!

My eyes popped open as I shouted in pain, the slap which brought me around throbbing against my cheek. UnMsure where I was, or even who I was I rolled out of bed, landing heavily on the floor, breathing hard, Frostreaver materializing in my hand.

"Ailirah! Drop it!"

Looking up, through a haze of fear, sweat, adrenaline, and something…something dark in the back of my mind I recognized Cyrus, dressed for sleeping, but looking wide awake and worried.

"It's just me – put it away" he said, his tone quiet, but firm, his face reflecting worry.

Looking around once, swallowing, trying to bring my breathing back under control, I let Frostreaver vanish for my grip. I've got to get it back from Tar-Meena, so she isn't playing warehouse for all my bound objects. They've got to exist _somewhere _when they aren't in use, after all. "Sorry," I rasped, my throat scratching so painfully I actually reached up to massage it. Head pounding, heart pounding, I tried to make sense of what I'd seen, what had scared me so…except the only thing to linger was the sense of dread, fear, and an echo of anger so much bigger than I am.

"Sorry…" I repeated. "Bad dream." Fumbling I grabbed my dressing gown from the bag between my bunk and the next, dragged it on and swept barefoot out of the dormitory, sweat beading on my forehead making me shiver as I entered the corridor.

"Ailirah!" Cyrus followed me, closing the door with a sharp click.

"I told you, it was just a bad dream," I said, feeling my temper rising uncontrollably.

"One hell of a dream…" Cyrus responded. "I'm worried about you, kid."

Looking up into Cyrus' eyes, I nodded my thanks, swallowing hard as I let myself sag against the wall, head bowed. "So'm I." Holding up one hand, I saw it shaking violently.

"Can you tell me…anything?" he offered.

"I would if I could..." I answered bleakly, dragging my hand through my sweaty hair, for once hanging loose. "I'm sorry for waking you."

Cyrus let me walk off, knowing there really wasn't much he _could _do to help. I'm grateful he recognizes it – it's so hard to discourage the helpful.

--A--


	34. Chapter 34

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Thirty-Four

--A--

I noticed it before now, how Oblivion gives me funny dreams – usually bad – but I've never had it as bad as _this_. Once I'd swept out of the barracks, I found myself faced with the dilemma of not knowing where to go to be _away from people_.  
In the end I wandered into the small Chapel of Talos, and for moment simply stood in the middle of it – the room isn't much bigger than ten feet by eight – looking at the floor, feeling an overwhelming sense of dread well up in me. Not only dread, but embarrassment – I don't remember the last time I had a nightmare bad enough that I rolled out of bed, ready to start hacking people up. Come to think of it, I don't think I've _ever_ had one that bad.

Then there was the dream itself. While the actual images are gone, nothing discernible, the lingering sense of cold fear, of pain, and general despair lingered like the last vestiges of a bad bout of flu. Couple this with the by-and-large shift in people's attitudes towards me, I marched up the short aisle between benches, around the stone block of a podium from behind which a priest could give service, sat down and gave a huge sigh.

Who'd look for me here?

Bringing my knees up to my chest, hunching forward, I wrapped my arms around them. I'm not sure which I prefer, feeling suffocated or feeling _isolated_.

On top of that, I _still_ don't understand what's happening – fear of the unknown amplifies just about anything. Sniffling, my eyes begin to prickle with tears. Oh…I'm _not_ going to do this. I'm supposed to be tougher than this…but the tears started to slip free of my eyes, despite berating myself – or perhaps, because of it.

"Ailirah?"

With a choking gasp I looked up to find Martin leaning over the podium. One of the last people I want seeing me with my composure in ruins. Scrambling to my feet I scrubbed furiously at my eyes with my sleeve, and managed to choke thickly, "Is something wrong?"

"Apparently so," he responded. "I didn't know you were back."

Still trying to swallow away the feeling of a thick throat, I waved. "You were sleeping." Just let it go, Martin.

"Ah," a long moment during which I suppressed two attempts at a renewed bout of tears passed before Martin finally spoke again. "May I ask?" he waved vaguely, indicating my rather perturbed state.

Giving a watery cough that might pass for a giggle, if you squint, I shrugged. "Just…having a bad day."

The look he gave me indicated he didn't believe I was telling the truth _accurately_. Apparently he's discovered I _like_ telling the truth – I also like telling it _from a certain point of view_. It's so much better than an outright lie, but as evidenced it no longer works on him.

Pursing my lips, the idea of maintaining I'm all right firmed up. However, looking up to tell him so broke the fortitude of the argument. Martin's expression showed worry, something like guilt, and the very human trait of wanting to help fix the problem. Great – now I've gone and _worried_ him – as if he doesn't have enough to think about, _and_ that damned book…I would wind up adding to the list of crap he's got on his plate. Dammit.

Sniffling again, I opened my mouth, closed it, grit my teeth and shook my head fiercely. I don't want to talk about it right now. Let me do it when I feel a little more…a little less weepy.

Surprising me almost to the point of jumping, Martin reached out and gently took hold of my wrist. For a half-second I felt something tingle up my arm, then obediently, unthinkingly, stepped forward when he pulled me around the podium, so I could rest my head against his shoulder.

For a moment I felt nothing but total shock – it's only ever been my brothers where he's standing just now, and I certainly don't think of him as a brother. A teammate, certainly. Future emperor…I'm working on it. A friend? Absolutely.

A crush…now, I don't need _that_ thought racketing around in my head…fortunately it subsided during the struggle to keep the next barrage of tears at bay. I hate getting teary, and I hate it when people see me this way. It's embarrassing.

"Tell me what's the matter." Despite the fact it was not a question, it still came across as allowing me the option to say 'no' I gave a strangled 'eep', another sniffle – ugh, my head's starting to hurt – and dissolved into muffled tears again, this time in earnest my hands tangling in the back of his shirt.

Martin didn't press me for an answer right away. Instead, he simply let me cry myself into silence. Admittedly, I feel a lot better, even if I still feel a little shaky, unnerved, and – oddly enough – _hungry_. "Thanks," I whispered, giving his back a pat to indicate I was quite finished making a spectacle of myself. Oddly, I'm not as embarrassed as I expected to end up feeling. A little – what girl likes a guy to see her cry? – but not as bad as expected.

"Tell me what's troubling you," Martin repeated, now it was apparent I was done crying.

"I'm just t-tired and sc-scared," I responded a little listlessly – I don't intend on announcing 'I got scared because I had a nightmare' it sounds dumb, even in my head. I successfully resisted the urge to twitch when his hand found my hair, hesitantly smoothing it in a gesture of comfort.

You know, this isn't so bad.

I suppose as a priest, hysterics aren't the weirdest thing he's ever seen, perhaps why he answered me in priest-fashion. "I would worry greatly if you _were not_ scared," he answered into my hair. "It would mean you had no concept of the situation, and would be a danger not only to yourself, but those around you."

Nodding my appreciation, I considered, thinking past the haze of contentment and the lingering smell of the bayberry soap apparently everyone in the Temple complex uses. "Why does it affect me so _badly_? The Gates, I mean," I asked, biting my lip, leaning back away from him so I could see his face. "How come…"

Martin held up a hand, taking my movement as a request for release. I have to admit, I'm a little disappointed, though it's probably a good idea. Wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong idea. "Sit down. We do need to discuss that," he added, almost guiltily.

With a sigh I threw myself onto a bench. I _knew_ he was withholding information, which explains why I'm not angry. Not at him, anyway.

Martin settled beside me, hunched forward slightly, his fingers laced together. Then he sighed, straightened up and glanced up at the effigy of Talos on the wall behind the podium, then looked over at me, his eyes wandering across my face, though without the traces of anxiety, discomfort, or mistrust I'd seen so far. His expression clearly told me this was 'his fault', though I fail to see why. Technically it's _my_ fault, since I insist on doing dangerous things, like closing Oblivion Gates.

In all honesty, I don't like that look of guilt. It's not like he's ordered me to do anything – I volunteered.

"What are your symptoms? Temper? Bad dreams? Changed eyes…and a certain…a certain _otherness_ others perceive?" He made it a question.

"Yeah, that's right," I answered.

Martin nodded, suspicions confirmed.

"Martin, what's happening to me?" I couldn't quite keep the waver of fear out of my tone, but apparently it was enough to get him started.

"In all normalcy," Martin began, after several long, silent moments in which he collected his thoughts, "it wouldn't affect you like it does. The damage wouldn't be…wouldn't be deep, I suppose. Anyone born of Nirn would have an adverse reaction to entering the Deadlands. Mehrunes Dagon is the Prince of Change, and nothing from here that goes into his realm comes out exactly the same. Generally speaking…" he held up a finger when I bit my lip, biting back a query as to why Roge didn't seem to have as much trouble, "generally speaking, the effects should wear off within a few days. For the average person, the damage is only temporary."

"So what's so special or bad about me?" I asked when he lapsed into silence.

"There's nothing _wrong_ with you," Martin announced sharply. "_Nothing_." He reiterated, then seeing he'd startled me, he looked faintly abashed. I don't think he meant to answer that harshly, just emphatically. "Generally, effects only linger – as they do with you – when someone has…close contact with something of the Deadlands. I'm sure if you were trapped there long-term, similar effects would occur, but I suspect they would seem more like survival traits than problems, until you got back."

"When you say 'close contact with things'..." Yeah –that sounds pretty…gross. The implication isn't pleasant, and I get the feeling I'm going to start blushing here in a minute. Good thing it's fairly dark in here.

Who'd _willingly_ do anything like _that_ with a Dremora? Yeesh!

Martin didn't elaborate – thank goodness. "Your case is somewhat unique. Your trouble stems from the burns you sustained from the Mysterium Xarxes." I knew it had something to do with that nasty book! And who wants to read the thing?! "It's made you susceptible to the Deadlands' changing influences…and I'm afraid to say, it's the sort of damage which doesn't just go away." Silence filled the small chapel.

"So…tell me what that means." I finally said, looking over at him. He looked like he was praying, hunched like that, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together.

Martin gave a heavy sigh and continued narrating. Strange enough, I begin to feel a little more calm and collected about this, seeing is how he's upset. I wonder, if he couldn't sleep because of a guilty conscience? If so, he doesn't need to feel guilty, it's not his fault. "It makes you resilient while you're there, yes, but at the same time, the damage wrought runs deeper – you'll feel it more acutely every time you come back to our side of a Gate." Martin looked over at me, his face grave. "This damage is not reversible, Ailirah."

How do you heal a sunburn? Because that's what it sounds like. Answer: you stay out of the sun.

"How long have you known?" I asked quietly, thinking back to the vague hints I should let someone else close the Cheydinhal Gates.

"A while. I…should have told you, even when the damage was only temporary. But…" he waved a hand, his brows knitting together.

"But you didn't want to burden me." I finished, as gently as I could. I really do appreciate the sentiment. I might have done the same thing, were our places reversed – it's not like I didn't have suspicions at all, wandered around bumbling in the dark. And until I learned the damage wasn't lasting…it wouldn't have changed anything.

Martin nodded. You know, I think he's waiting for the axe to drop.

"Thank you," I said, genuinely meaning it. When he only nodded, not looking convinced I glanced over and then used my fingers to scuttle my hand over to his, letting my palm settle against the back of his hand, which got his attention. "I _do _appreciate the sentiment behind your silence." I reiterated. "Just…in future…I'd rather know," I added cautiously.

"I know," Martin responded, looking down at my hand resting on his. "But how do you tell someone, a genuinely good person, she's damaging herself out of some sense of duty? I don't think the knowledge would have stopped you."

I nodded. "You're right. That's why I'm not mad." I gave his hand a squeeze. "I actually get more worried _not_ knowing."

Martin gave me a sort of rueful half-smile. "Yes, I suppose you do."

"I do!" I repeated, this time getting a genuine smile. "So I need to know…how bad…"

"I don't know." Martin sighed.

I took a moment to consider the wording of my next question. "Martin? Can…can this be used to make …make me do things?" The implication hit me like a charging clannfear – a massive one. What if this is some kind of Dagonite plot? Setting a wolf among sheep…

"No, nothing like that," Martin answered firmly. "These changes may make you _like _them, but it _doesn't _make you their puppet. I promise," he added, when my worry didn't apparently clear fast enough.

Nodding, I looked away. I wish I could accept that so easily. I suspect I'll deal with this fear for a long while yet – but maybe it's not a bad thing. It'll keep me careful, keep me aware and on my guard.

"May I ask something of you?" Martin asked after another long, but fairly companionable silence.

"What?" I think I already know. "You want me to promise not to close any more of them, don't you?" I asked finally.

"No." Martin surprised me with his answer. "Not at all. I'm asking you, not to go through the Gates without good reason beyond your sense of altruism. You're sensitive to the effects, the effects won't go away – I'm asking you to let someone else do it, until the time comes where it _must _be you."

"You're sure that'll happen?" I asked.

Martin gave me a look of determination and dark certainty. "Yes. Sooner or later it will be necessary. But it isn't necessary r_ight now._" Martin paused as I resigned myself to his argument. "And, I trust your word."

There's the last nail in the coffin. With a sigh, I ruffled my hair. "All right, no word games, I won't mess with the Gates, unless it's necessary."

"Thank you," Martin inclined his head.

Looking back to the fore of the chapel, I chewed my thumbnail. "Does that mean…my eyes aren't going to change back?"

"I'm afraid so," Martin answered quietly.

Sighing I hunched forward, catching my heels on the edge of the bench and wrapping my arms around my knees. "I hear you've abandoned your swordsmanship practice." I announced into the now uncomfortable silence.

"Translating the Mysterium Xarxes takes a lot of time and effort," Martin answered blandly.

Clicking my tongue my magelight appeared above our heads and immediately filtered from red to violet, then settled on a sparkly silver color, orbiting around us like some strangely benign will-o-the-wisp.

"Well, there goes my excuse." Martin announced, his tone lighter than previous.

"I practiced." For a moment I could feel him trying to change the color of the light – not trying hard, but a low-level effort, which previously I couldn't block. I did so now, however, and the light bobbed to hide under out bench. "You scared it." I admonished poking him in the arm.

Martin was smiling by now, it looked like a relief for him to do so. I suspect he hasn't had much to smile over for a few days.

"Don't worry. We'll get through this." I announced, only half as confident as I sounded, dispelling my magelight.

"Do you think so?"

"Sure. If we don't all die of sleep deprivation first." With a chuckle at my own joke, I got to my feet. "The others should have settled back down." Martin arched his eyebrows. I never did explain what I was doing here, I assumed he guessed. "…I uh…I had a nightmare. Woke most of the barracks up." I shifted, running a hand though my hair.

"Must have been some nightmare," Martin remarked delicately.

"It was. Mehrunes Dagon danced in the Arena in a pink dress waving Markos' former favorite hat like a tambourine. People shouldn't _ever_ have to see that sort of thing." I was lying, and we both knew it, but it didn't stop the idea from being funny.

Or mildly disturbing, I suppose.

"I might be able to help, with the nightmares." Martin volunteered, as if suddenly inspired.

Oh really...whoa! What? In my boggled state of mind, that sounds a little...never mind.

I managed to put on a convincingly interested expression, and not the face I really wanted to make. I'm sure he didn't mean it as a joke or a come-on (he's a priest!), so laughing (or squeaking 'not in the chapel!' before running like a scared rabbit) is totally inappropriate.

He fished about his neck and produced a small disc on a chain. There disc was about the size of the tip of my forefinger, very thin, made of silvery metal – probably not real silver though. "Look," with the chain wound about his fingers he set the disc in my hand. Squinting I could discern a miniature of Akatosh stamped into it – a priest's token. Martin twisted the little pendant into his hand, closed his eyes, then raised both hand and pendant to his lips.

I remained silent, watching. A moment later, he opened his eyes and slipped the chain about my neck. "It carries such blessing as I can give you," he continued softly, taking my hands. "It will protect you, and help you to always come back to us."

Freeing a hand I reached up, and closed it over the pendant. Warm in my hand, I gripped it until I felt the edges cut in. "You can't…" I started. Doesn't he need this, as a priest?

"I can't not send you on missions," Martin cut me off firmly. "But such aid as I can give you, you shall have."

I gave him a smile, a genuine on this time. That's really...sweet isn't the word, but it'll do for the moments. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Martin walked me to the door, at which point I went left and he went right.

Still, I thought, lying in bed, I felt a little blossom of courage peeking out of the mire of fear. A way to come back, huh?

And he was right about the nightmares – I slept soundly until the morning.

--A--


	35. Chapter 35

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Sorry about the wait – I've not been well, headaches and stuff. But enough of that – here's the next chapter!

--A--

Chapter Thirty-Five

--A--

The gorgeous day looked singularly at odds with the atmosphere within Cloud Ruler Temple. Overhead the sun blazed brilliantly in a sky so blue it hurt the eyes – even normal eyes – to look at it. Settled comfortably against the wall of battlements ringing the main courtyard, I looked over at an extremely tired Martin. His lack of practice – even three or four days worth – showed when he picked up a sword. "You've _got_ to practice," I admonished, barely winded after the second furious bout.

Cyrus, standing guard with another Blade I didn't know, looked amused. His current partner did not – I think this new Blade resents the familiarity between the would-be emperor and myself. Well, Martin's not Emperor yet, and he needs the practice.

"Yes, I think you're right," Martin managed. "Or maybe someone's just gotten stronger."

Maybe. Two Oblivion Gates after getting burned by the Mysterium Xarxes has left me to settle out – I'm still finding odd peculiarities I noticed but never really identified before. Still, the knowledge I was 'okay', coupled with my new good luck charm, hanging hidden and safe beneath my shirt, I actually feel pretty good for not having gotten enough sleep.

With a barking laugh I got to my feet, clanking slightly as my chainmail shifted to hang properly. "Come on – you've got another round." I prompted, tapping my staff against the ground. It is _way_ too cold out here – I feel it more when I'm not moving around. It never used to feel this cold.

"He's tired." The second Blade announced dryly.

"He won't give you much of a fight, Ailirah." Cyrus seconded. Martin scowled, though not at them. Come on, guys, he's the heir apparent - he's not _delicate_.

Stifling a noise of derision I nodded at Martin – we _are _going to do this. "No, he won't," I responded with a shrug, giving Cyrus a look of amusement. Does it occur to anyone else that maybe – just maybe – getting out of the great hall, away from the books, might just be _fun_ for him? "But…" I shrugged glancing over at Martin.

"He'll remember the lesson." Martin finished, the glint of determination in his eyes as I smiled at him, a sweet invitation to do his best. Cyrus and his partner are quite right – Martin's not going to…

_Hot damn_!

I yelped as Martin rushed me. The rush wasn't an actual attack – I blocked automatically, muscles trained to react even when the mind could not, startled by the sudden burst of speed. Martin reached out with his free hand - having a longer reach than I – grabbing my arm as I sent his wooden sword spinning away.

My arm went dead, uselessly numb, except for the sensation of a band of pins and needles where Martin grabbed me.

He let go immediately as I brought my quarterstaff – the closest approximation to Frostreaver I could find – towards his shoulder. Marin darted for his sword and actually managed to get to it as I struggled to figure out what to do with my quarterstaff and one useless arm. It's an ungainly weapon when you're one-handed.

Clumsily I gripped higher, letting the off-end just out past my shoulder, the weapon held as close to parallel to my arm as I could, allowing me to block the next blow awkwardly. The next sent my weapon spinning. Thinking he had me – I'm certainly at a disadvantage – Martin contrived to get behind me, and grab me, my neck resting in the crook of his elbow. He kicked my staff out of reach. "Do I win?" he asked in my ear. I could hear him grinning – he's never come this close to a win before.

Others might let him have a match now and then, but with me he has to earn it. It helps him keep his skills in perspective, or so I feel. I never got to win in sparring just because I was someone's sister – never. That's not the point of learning the sword; you learn to fight so you can survive whatever life or your opponent throws at you.

Chuckling I adjusted my feet, twitching my paralyzed hand. It reacted, albeit slow and stupid, but at least I could use it. I'll need it.

The size difference between Martin and I – particularly when he's got me in a chokehold (even a poorly executed one) - seems like a disadvantage to me, when in reality, it's not. "I don't _just let_ anyone win, Martin. You know that." I grabbed his wrist, twisting it so his hand inexorably opened, uncurling his arm from about my neck. Releasing his arm quickly, he didn't move fast enough to stop me from repositioning my grip.

He's never tried grappling before, and has never asked whether I can or not. The answer is 'a little bit'. Markos studied grappling with Davela Hlaren for several months, after getting into and out of a tight spot with more damage to himself than he liked.

And afterwards, Markos taught _me_, because it wouldn't do to get into _this_ sort of situation in the real world. Not _his_ precious little sister. I bless him for making me learn _now_.

Grabbing Martin's shirt as well as his arm, not caring whether I left bruises (they're only little Ailirah-finger sized bruises, after all) I rocked forward, putting him on the ground.

Martin landed on his tailbone with a thud, his back against my braced leg. "Ow." He announced, wincing. Yes, defeat does hurt.

"Yeah, show me your super-secret Blades deathgrip and I'll show you how to get out of it." I announced cheerfully, rephrasing a line Markos is fond of using.

Martin is _crafty_. I should commit this to memory, because I heard it in his voice when he answered. "Right." Reaching back he grabbed my ankle and _jerked_.

"Ow!" I yelped, landing on _my_ tailbone – _damn that hurts_ - before swinging free of his grip, grabbing his practice sword – the closest one – and swinging it at him. It's not over till it's over. Previously, I've allowed the fight to stop whenever it looks like he's done, but today is a knockdown drag-out kind of day, in which neither player is 'dead' until they announce they're dead.

Back home we call them house rules.

I yelped when the practice sword in my hand burst into flames – though I had time to drop it before the magical fire reduced it to cinders or burned my hand. Martin smirked, his blue eyes twinkling as he waved his fingers at me, much as I'd done earlier.

You cheeky little…

So you want to _play._ Okay. I can do that – the house rules deathmatch then. Martin's smile dimmed slightly as I returned one of my own. You're dead. You're so dead. Still – you've made a brave attempt, and a valiant effort.

But you _are_ dead.

He's also getting tired – he can't keep this up for long – and I'm getting more and more feeling back in the arm he paralyzed. Regaining my quarterstaff I turned to find Martin apparently centering himself, or whatever mages do. "I wondered if the trip up here was just a fluke," I teased.

"Medium or well done?" Martin asked, out of the blue.

"Eh?" blinking I readied myself to spring left or right, in case he sent a snowball or something at me. That smirk of his could mean just about anything, and it _would_ be funny to see me with a face full of snow.

"Your crow," he continued to smirk.

"Oh…" I nodded, a grin creeping wider across my features. He's in a good mood – see? Everyone needs exercise. I'll bet he gets cranky when he's cooped up. "I'll get back to you on that."

The snowball I expected came flying at me, shattering when I slammed it with the off-end of my staff. Despite the fact he still smiled at me, I could see concentration brewing behind Martin's eyes. I'm actually quite pleased – I didn't expect him to break the perceived rule of 'no magicka' for months. Sure, I'm teaching him the sword – but more importantly, I'm teaching him _how to stay alive_. Much more valuable than any one single discipline, I'm certain.

The problem is, how can I get close enough to 'kill' him, when he's using magicka and I'm not? I'm sure he's aware of the problem, which tips the scales in his favor. Of course, he'll run out of magicka quicker than I'll run out of good old fashioned strength and endurance.

The two of us stood facing each other, a 'safe' distance between us, considering options. Of course, while we stop to think, his magicka is trickling back, which means it's more dangerous for me to wait and attack than to throw caution to the winds.

Biting my lip I summoned all my magical resources and imagined a sort of plate, or wall between Martin and I, and with that I sprinted forward.

Martin's spell shattered my shield, as I expected it to. What I _didn't_ expect was the backlash of a badly made spell getting shattered by a very well-constructed one.

I reeled, lost my balance and hit the ground again, my hand still gripped around my staff.

It occurs to me, somewhere between falling and hitting the ground, I can still win this. If I were teaching honorable combat, I'd never do it. However, since I'm not, I feel no guilt whatsoever. Any odd flares of temper evaporated long ago - I truly do enjoy sparring with Martin. More now that I know he can be so very creative. There's nothing like a good fight, without the usual walls of certainty and calculation.

"Are you all right?" Martin asked, sweeping over, to peer down at me. Undoubtedly, he knows I wasn't ready for magical backlash.

Just a little closer…come on, a couple more steps…there you go.

I opened one eye, squinting up at him. He looks like he's wearing some kind of halo, backlit like he is. Smirking, I attacked.

The end of my staff poked him in the stomach as I got up, I delivered a 'gentle' rap to the side of his neck – which would have decapitated him in a real fight. My staff's end rested on his shoulder, a steady reminder if he moved I was going to 'kill' him again.

"Ow." Martin announced, raising his hands slightly.

"Are you dead yet?" I asked, feeling more cheerful than I had for awhile. We should do this more often.

"I don't know, want to check?" he inquired, straightening up. I rapped his shoulder reprovingly with the staff – you don't get to stand up straight until I know you concede the match.

"No, because you _could _be playing possum. I'll just stand here and wait for evidence of death to present itself."

"Evidence?" Martin snickered, abandoning his attempt to straighten up. He's still cooking something up, I'm sure. The question is, can he execute anything?

"Mm hmm," I nodded emphatically. "Like vultures circling overhead or…" I broke off as he started to laugh. "Or maybe…" Aha! Speak of the vulture! "Hi Jauffre!" I chirruped, waving as Jauffre walked up to observe the so-called lesson.

"Well, I'm dead." Martin announced. Stepping away from him I leaned on my staff, still beaming at Jauffre in an 'I don't think you'll get the joke, so don't ask' sort of way.

Cyrus gets it – I can see him struggling not to laugh.

Catching the wicked look on my face, Martin's eyes danced as he bit his lip. I could see we're on the same page, he and I, in the book of wicked humor. Sorry Jauffre, but you really _walked_ right into that one. "Jauffre." Martin nodded, still struggling to hide his amusement at Jauffre's timing.

"Good morning." Jauffre nodded. "How's he doing?" Jauffre inquired of me, jerking his chin towards the staff.

"Well, he fights better than anyone else I ever killed." I winked at Martin. "It's a hell of a workout."

Jauffre made a 'good point' face. "I didn't realize you expanded the lessons to include magicka."

"I _didn't_. He can't beat me with a sword alone, so he improvises like any good fighter will," Martin looked vaguely surprised at this. "I don't teach artistry with a sword, I teach you to survive," I directed at Martin. "You always win if you can walk away."

"I did wonder why you didn't cry foul." Martin announced.

"You don't have much faith in me, do you?" I asked, still joking.

"I have a great amount of faith in you. But I also know you like to win." Martin returned courteously.

"Don't we all?" I retorted with a grin. "Still, for someone who _slacked off_ while I was gone…" Shrugging to make my point, I waved to indicate things were still pretty well in hand. "How do you feel?" I asked Martin.

"Fine." He answered. His expression said 'exhausted, hungry, and sweaty – but better'.

Elbowing him gently I jerked my chin towards the great hall, and lunch. "It's good for you."

--A--

After lunch, Martin began his work on the Mysterium Xarxes. Just sitting close to the book made my skin prickle uncomfortably. Martin noticed my discomfort quickly, and advised me to find something constructive to do. I'd gladly do it, but again I found myself met with a vague sort of discomfort wherever I went. Veiled mistrust. Uncertainty.

It's human nature to mistrust what one doesn't understand, and even more so to fill in the gaps oneself, rather than asking the strange one why she is the way she is. I understand the source of the sense of walking on eggshells, even if I don't like it. I know I'd be a little unsettled around someone with red eyes, who has nightmares bad enough to make her jump out of bed, ready to hack into the first person to come close enough…I'm not even sure I can truthfully say I'd ask the person in question about it, though.

It's not open animosity. It's simply…unease. Palpable unease. Less so from Cyrus and a couple others – mixed with guilt in the case of Caro, I hope she'll come around soon, I miss chatting with her – but all the same, the more nervous they get, the more uncomfortable _I_ get, and we just sort of feed the other's discomfort.

Finally, I went to Jauffre, tapping politely on his office door.

"Come in."

Sliding the door opened, I slipped into his office, then slid it shut behind me. "Jau…what a mess!" Blinking in astonishment, I took in the massive mess that is Jauffre's office today.

"Very astute," Jauffre remarked dryly. "If you've come with the intention of cleaning it up so as to be useful, the kitchen would benefit more from your…industry."

Snickering softly, I took the chair before his desk. "Yeah, I'm amazed you haven't sent me back - my dishpan hands have nearly healed," I wiggled my fingers at him.

"I can fix that, if you'd like," Jauffre smirked.

"What for? I haven't _done_ anything yet!" I protested, startled by the sudden sense of seriousness in his eyes.

Jauffre arched his eyebrows. "Guilty conscience, Ailirah?"

Standing up, so as to maintain a less vulnerable position, I crossed my arms over my chest. "Nope – not today and Martin will vouch for me," I tacked on, feeling mildly cheeky, despite the ambiance outside the office. I think Martin and Jauffre have already discussed my, ah, _issues_, probably before discussing them with me. "I actually came to ask if…if we've learned anything about the Mythic Dawn."

"Past what you've brought back?" Jauffre shook his head, returning to true seriousness. "No, not at all. All we know, really, is they're a step ahead of us." With a sigh he abandoned looking for whatever eluded him in the deluge of papers on his desk, maps, personal accounts, almost everything handwritten. "I'm glad you got Martin to go outside this morning. He spends far too much time poring over that evil book."

"I agree," pacing over to one of the walls, I examined a painting there, without really looking at it. "I don't like him spending too much time with it either." Call me paranoid. That thing burned me, I don't trust it not to have some nasty surprises between its covers. "Talking of staying a step ahead…what if I told you I had another lead?" I asked, eyeing Jauffre for a reaction. I have to play this carefully, or he'll tell me to go scrub dishes.

"I'd believe you saved it for this moment, because you were cagey and wanted an excuse to leave the Temple," Jauffre answered, though he didn't sound exactly accusatory. "I'd also believe you didn't think it a viable lead, if you used it so cavalierly."

"A lead is a lead," I shook my head. "Tar-Meena mentioned it while we were looking for the Dagon shrine." Turning back to Jauffre I chewed my lip for a moment. "Ah…you know I make a lot of your men uncomfortable, don't you?"

"They'll get used to it," Jauffre said, after studying me for a moment. I think he means to reassure me, but it isn't working.

"But not overnight, and not with me breathing down their necks." Caro in particular has begun to skirt me, like she wants to say something, but hasn't the nerve – hence why I think she feels a little guilty, and why I thinks he'll come around fairly quickly. "And this lead is feeble at best. But," I added slyly, "if it turns out more than hope and a scholar's dusty legend, it might be the step we need to get ahead. And then your Blades can stop acting like nervous cats."

"And you can get some air," Jauffre finished.

With a sigh I settled on the arm of the chair. "That's not entirely untrue. I'm used to ranging beyond four walls. I know I'm not the only one who needs to feel useful. In fact, since Martin made me promise not to close anymore Gates, I feel pretty use_less_." I admitted, surprising Jauffre a bit, I think, since he looked away from his desk to regard me again.

Jauffre sat down, and shrugged as if to say 'let's hear your argument'.

"This lead isn't much. In fact, it's probably nothing, so it doesn't make sense to send a whole crew down to look. Couple that with the fact I'm making people nervous, it makes no sense for more to go."

"And if it's not a wild goose chase?" Jauffre asked.

I shrugged. "Anything they want, I don't want them to have, it's as simple as that. My specialty with the Guild is artifact recovery. It's a dungeon dive – I'm more than qualified. If it looks like I'll get in over my head, I'll pull out and get a message to you."

"But you don't think that will be necessary," Jauffre responded.

Damn it – I forgot how perceptive he is. "Weigh what you could gain by what you could lose." I finished my argument. "And tell me if it's not worth it."

Jauffre deliberated. "He got you to promise that, did he?" Jauffre asked, breaking the intervening silence.

"He had a good argument." I answered, neither of us in any doubt as to who 'he' was. "And I don't want to be any more Daedric than I already am." It's true, and also the only way I can find to describe the changes – 'more Daedric'.

Jauffre sighed, then looked at me. "Do you really think removing yourself from the Temple will make people accept that you've changed a little?"

I shrugged. The feeling of my mood swinging from one extreme to another isn't reassuring, and I get the feeling it could take a week or two for it to settle down. I don't know if there's any precedent for my condition. "No. And honestly, under different circumstances I don't think anyone would care. But I've heard the rumors. Half the new arrivals think I'm half-Daedra myself. It scares them – most of them don't even know _how_ it happened, which leads to speculation. It's the speculation that's worst."

The stories I've heard while eavesdropping are many and varied – all because I have bad nightmares, red eyes, a reputation for closing Oblivion Gates and a _really big sword_.

"And this lead of yours?" Jauffre asked.

"Well, it's not the Amulet of Kings…but if I were a betting woman, I'd say walking away from it was like betting against Agronak gro-Malog." I answered with a shrug.

I hope he doesn't ask too many more questions.

--A--


	36. Chapter 36

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Thirty-Six

--A--

"I didn't expect to see you back so…my _goodness_!" Tar-Meena jumped as she set down her pile of books on the study table, getting her first good look at me. "What happened to you?!" She demanded, eyeing me closely with unabashed concern. "Is it contagious?"

Mages are the biggest wimps on the face of the planet when it comes to getting sick. Still, the open question is far preferable to people making up their own myths and stories, so I laughed, instead of taking offense. "No, it's not. I got burned by a book." I answered. "Not one of my shining moments, but," shrugging I stood up, leaning Frostreaver on my shoulder. Contrary to Tar-Meena's promise to keep it safe, I found it standing with a _broom_ in a corner of this very office.

The ignominy of getting relegated to the same corner as a _broom – _which had _dust_ gathering on it! That is _not_ 'I'll keep an eye on it', this is 'now where shall I put this...oh, we got new books? I'm on my way – as soon as I put this thing down! I'll move it later...' and later never comes, moments. A warrior's soul is in her sword – I'm never letting this thing out of my possession again. If it has to exist somewhere, it can exist safely underneath my bunk, wrapped in dust-repelling silk or something. Maybe I can find a wooden case for it.

I'm never letting it out of my possession – or Cloud Ruler Temple – ever again, except when it's in use.

"You got burned by a _book_?You mean…" Tar-Meena looked around, then lowered her voice, edging closer to me, her eyes fixed on my face. "You found the Mysterium Xarxes?" She marveled, a slow smile creeping across her reptilian features.

"I certainly didn't lose it, and no you can't have it."I predicted her next question.

"It was worth a try," Tar-Meena shrugged, chuckling.

"Actually, we're working on a way to destroy it." I lied. I doubt something like that destroys easily, or without the help of the Arcane University's entire contingent of battlemages. Even then, from what I've gleaned on the subject, it's not truly 'destroyed' it's 'returned to it's plane of origin'. Well, it's more like wishful thinking - if I could destroy that thing, I certainly would.

Tar-Meena deflated. "Dare I ask why you're back here so soon, then? Another riddle? Or did you simply want help destroying it?" Her sullen tone indicated if this was the case, I knew how to see myself out.

Scholars are so funny, and Tar-Meena is a sense of subtle humor all on her own.

"No – I'm actually investigating a lead." Another night of nightmares prompted Jauffre to approve my request for permission to leave the Temple for a bit. Martin was disappointed, but promised to continue practicing with Cyrus – or, I promised, I'd kick his ass when I got back, no matter _what_ crafty spellwork he tried to use.

Okay, I'd kick his ass _gently_. It isn't as if he's on my shitlist.

At least he was smiling when I left – albeit in amused disbelief at my lack of subtlety more than anything else. He also took a moment to tell me – again – the side effects shouldn't be too terrible, as long as I keep my word about avoiding the Gates.

At least I've stopped shivering from chill at odd moments. It's late spring – it'll be miserable in Leyawiin. Hot and humid, and it just _sticks_ to you.

I also admit freely, the idea of Mehrunes Dagon's band of fanatics getting a hold of his artifact here in the realms isn't exactly encouraging. That's the 'step ahead' I hinted about to Jauffre – if they want it, I want it more. It's not the Amulet of Kings, I don't expect to see that for quite a while – I refuse to believe 'if ever' – but every little bit helps. If I were Dagon, and I knew I had persistent pests trying to foul my plans, I would want all my artifacts back with me – so no one could use them _against_ me. I have no doubt the Razor would make an appearance in the hands of some Ogre-sized Dremora (or maybe a human) champion.

I don't want to know what happens when Mehrunes' Razor stabs someone. I'll bet it isn't pretty.

I'll tell you what else isn't pretty – or wouldn't be – Jauffre (or others) finding out I had Mehrunes Dagon's artifact and _brought it back with me_. Fortunately, no one – not even Jauffre – knows exactly what I'm after. Which is good, really, the secret will stay safe with me. Daedric artifacts tend to come to people for a reason, even if said people have to go looking for them. I wish I could use it as a bargaining chip, but Mehrunes Dagon would probably just step on me, squish me into scrib-jelly and take it from my smushed fingers. Or pick it out of his foot, if I had my wits about me.

"Which lead is that?" Tar-Meena asked, tapping a finger against her jaw, shattering my reverie.

"We talked about Sundercliff Watch, the supposed resting Place of Mehrunes Razor. I need it – to keep it safe." I announced, watching Tar-Meena's face. I think she'll see the practicality of knowing where the Razor is, and know it's in fairly safe hands.

This isn't like me walking around with the Amulet of Kings in my pocket for a month – this is completely different. I've grown up quite a bit since then, if I may say so myself. Though, my argument boiling down to 'I want it so he can't have it' might debunk that theory.

"Ooh," Tar-Meena nodded, slowly at first then getting faster. "Yes, I suppose _they_ would want it too. And I certainly don't want to think what sort of damage they could do with it –it's supposed to be quite powerful, quite malevolent."

"Could it burn me, like the Mysterium Xarxes did?" I asked, trying not to sound too worried. I suppose a more accurate question is 'can it burn be _because_ the Mysterium Xarxes did?'.

"I…don't know. Logically, perhaps not, but since this is Mehrunes Dagon we're talking about…you'd better wear gloves, just in case." Tar-Meena advised. "I'll get a map. This is still Blades business, isn't it?"

"I have orders to do what I can to stop Mehrunes Dagon's followers." I announced, not quite meeting her eyes. Again, truth from a certain point of view - and I _am_ the best woman for the job. I _do_ specialize in artifact recovery.

Yeah, yeah. Excuses and justifications – I know.

"Good enough," Tar-Meena nodded, shuffling out to fetch a map. Flexing my hand, I blew into it, watching the compass-spell Martin cast there glimmer to life.

Abysmal sense of direction or not, I don't intend on getting _lost_. This is too important.

Speaking of important – if Frostreaver was in the corner with the broom, where's my armor?

--A--

A stroke of luck fell my way – I arrived at Sundercliff Watch, a ruined fortress above ground – after dark.

Tar-Meena discovered there was no proper survey ever done for the underground portion – so my job expanded to clearing it out so a cartography team could go in later. I think she was joking, but I'm not sure – scholars have a funny sense of humor. Maybe it's safer to assume she _wasn't_ joking.

The cover of darkness, and my improved dark-vision granted me an unprecedented advantage over the band of idiots camped out near the eastern wall of the ruins. Equally fortunate for me, the fortress lay surrounded by trees and thick undergrowth, evidencing a stint of dereliction spanning decades. Maybe even centuries – partly due to the fact it's supposed to be quite a distance south and west of where I actually found it. I never had call to bless my bad sense of direction, but for once in my life it actually got me where I needed to go.

Someone, somewhere, is watching out for me.

As for the fools camping out, they moved with no concern for the fact anything _might _go sneaking around in the underbrush - or slithering under it like some parody of a snake, as in my case. They had no concept of keeping quite, in case of hidden watchers. Idiots.

Then again, they're Mythic Dawn – every last one of this dozen-strong recovery team wore the red robes, though given the way they're drinking, they're obviously not professionals of the same caliber as the Fighters' Guild, not the way they're laughing and chattering without care for anything or anyone watching them.

I'll say it again: _idiots_. Every last one of them.

This is a common mistake of rookies and lackwits. Rule One of Dungeon Diving: with ruins like this, you _never _assume you are unobserved. In fact, boundless paranoia is even advisable, especially when no one knows what's down beneath the surface level. The unknown levels tend to host all sorts of nasty surprises – hence why no one knows what's down there – no one's come back to tell the tale. So I have no problem, not one, in allowing _them_ to go first. I'll just follow behind and keep an eye on things.

If they're not too inebriated to move come morning.

Rule Two of Dungeon Diving – don't ever go down there at night. You never know when ruins play host to vampires, and if they're desperate enough to take refuge in a dungeon, you can bet they probably aren't feeding regularly enough to say hello to you before attacking, let alone giving them resistance to the sun. So worst comes to worst, head topside and let them follow you. An ugly way for them to die, but most of the time they retreat quickly enough, and you can safely regroup.

Or run like hell, depending on the situation.

--A--

Sundercliff Watch proved the biggest, deepest, darkest most nasty-infested place I ever set foot, bar none. Even Oblivion didn't get to me the way this place did. Maybe it was the cultists versus the private army already taking refuge down there. Or the private army versus the vampires. It might just come down to the fact that as far as dungeons go...this one was simply too big to be allowed. More like the evil answer to Cloud Ruler Temple – only not so well-appointed. All I know is none of them are interested in anything except eradicating anything else down there – apparently the other Dagonite sect the mythic Dawn was looking to contact were killed off when the Dunmer moved in – and taking the Razor for themselves.

So what did I do? I let them fight it out, and cleaned up anyone who was left. Not exactly brave, but decidedly intelligent. I shall take a moment to marvel at my own cunning.

The hard part wasn't the Mythic Dawn. It wasn't the Dunmer army (though if they'd noticed me, it would have proved the biggest brawl I ever took part in – not what I'm here for, not remotely appealing). It wasn't the covey of vampires lurking in the deeper recesses of the cavernous complex, starving, mindless brutes. It wasn't even the Dunmer mage I found at the end of my quest – eyeing Mehrunes Razor with a hungry expression I didn't like to see.

No. The mage actually got himself _killed_ by the hard part – a massive guardian I at first thought was a construct of some sort, heavily armored, wielding a war axe my _father_ could swing around like a toy. Highly resistant to magicka, I found it less resistant to cold steel – or Frostreaver's bite. Still, it wasn't an easy fight – I refused point blank to eat any sort of beating heart, which is what seemed the indicated way to proceed. I might be Oblivion-touched, but I'm not a cannibal. That's icky.

This staunch refusal to do any such foul thing was also, looking back, what triggered the defense mechanism – the construct (or whatever it was) hosting the beating heart.

Still, the fight left me winded, but surprisingly enough, unhurt by my usual standards (broken ribs, extensive burns, or seething temper…nope – I'm great). The worst is a twisted ankle. I pivoted off-balance to get out of the way when the guardian finally collapsed, but it wasn't so bad I couldn't limp around on it. It'll ache for a few days, but I've had far worse injuries in more pressing circumstances before.

Which is why I sit, leaning against a wall, Frostreaver resting beside me in easy reach, debating what to do now. Obviously, taking a moment for myself is in order. Unslinging my backpack I rummaged around in its depths, finally finding a wrapped portion of waybread, which I immediately opened, broke into smaller pieces, and began to eat, regarding Mehrunes' Razor, which now seems unguarded, fixedly.

I know better than to assume '_seems_ unguarded' means '_is_ unguarded' – a standard rule of the dungeon diver. Call it Rule Three, even. Ayleids in particular were _masters_ of the hidden trap. Even form back here, the Razor feels _decidedly _malevolent, as if I were sitting in a room with someone in a bad mood. It's far was worse up close, though it doesn't make my old burns tingle, the way the Mysterium Xarxes does. I'll take it as a good sign, but not to the point of throwing caution to the wind.

The Razor hovered above its plinth, bathed in red magelights of a more intense color than the rest of the lights in the room – an almost cloister-like place, compared to the rest of the sprawling caverns. Believe it nor not, they have a whole _village_ down here. No wonder no one's mapped the place out – it's too big, and too infested with nastiness. If I had my way, I'd torch the whole place. It's the only way it'll ever get properly cleaned out – unless my whole family decides to take a holiday together and we come here.

I'll have quite a job ahead of me getting out again. It'll be easier than getting in, though. Fewer enemies to fight. I'll bet Tar-Meena can get the battlemages all riled up – if she can, _they _can clean out the leftovers and have any treasure still down here. I've had enough of this place for a lifetime, and I wont' recommend it as a holiday destination. Nope I'm good to go – a better reward will be regaining the surface where there's breezes, stars, and open spaces.

Finishing my waybread, I took a draught from my canteen, put it back in my backpack, stood up and slid the pack back on. From my belt I tugged my gloves loose. I hate wearing gloves when I fight – it messes with my ability to grip things properly.

I learned from my experience with the Mysterium Xarxes – and what I learned is that you don't just handle Mehrunes Dagon's artifacts with your bare hands. This might be a little different, but I'm going to be a little more careful about it than I was previously.

Walking up to the plinth above which the Razor hovered, I checked for booby traps – not that I could see anything out of place. Caution, however, is something I'm learning – pain is a good teacher. Reaching up with an apprehensive breath, I grasped the Razor around its hilt. Even thought my gloves, the instant I touched it my skin rose into gooseflesh, the Razor itself feeling wet, slick and slippery. A strange vibration ran the length of my arm as I pulled it free if its invisible mooring.

Nothing happened, and I waited, poised to slash out with the Razor in case the guardian reanimated, or something _bad _happened – some new guardian, or some warning the artifact no longer rested in its proper place.

Seconds ticked by, meted out by the pounding of my heart, but nothing happened. Slowly, I folded the weapon shut. I'll take time to look at it properly once I get topside, back to…is it still daytime, even?

I have no idea how long I've been down here, though judging by how tired I am, nightfall could be well under way.

My skin continued to crawl as I held the Razor. Pulling off one glove with my teeth, I touched the engraved casing with one finger, briefly as if tapping a finger against a hot iron. Nothing. I pressed my finger against the cold casing, but nothing happened – no burning, no sudden unexpected flares of temper, just the unpleasant sense of slipperiness. It looks as though it really is like the other Daedric artifacts in our world: useful, usable, and detrimental only to the unwary. Which means I need to be careful never to cut myself on it – I'll bet this thing has a tendency to 'accidentally slip'.

If Martin thinks the Mysterium Xarxes is malevolent (it is, but it's more angry-malevolent, not nasty-malevolent like this thing)…imagine what he'd say if he knew I _had_ this piece of shit. A faint grin touched my features at the thought. Nothing good, he'd probably get himself all worked up and worried over it. As if he needs something else to worry about.

Still, the Mythic Dawn knew it was here, they tried to collect it from their fellow Dagonites…so they obviously wanted _it_ as much as their allies. We've gotten a step ahead. It's not the Amulet of Kings, but I'm sure when Mehrunes Dagon finds out things haven't gone according to plan he's not going to smile and tell the Mythic Dawn 'you did your best, try again'. I imagine boiling in oil, death and dismemberment are on the agenda – for the amusement of the Dremora and as an example to all future minions.

He's not exactly the forgiving sort.

Yes, best if a nasty little knife like this stays with a conscientious keeper. If he's got a problem, he can come talk to me face to face.

And bring the Amulet of Kings with him – the Blades can think of some sneaky way of getting it, while I run around trying desperately to keep out of his Daedric reach.

With this thought and a grin at the thought of Mehrunes Dagon's impending tantrum over skewed plans, I slipped the Razor into my boot, pressed firmly against my calf. The malevolence dimmed slightly, but I remained highly aware of it, feeling as if a slaughterfish lay pressed against bare skin, never mind my trousers were full-length, and the Razor didn't touch my flesh at all. Maybe that's why the aura's not so noticeable, something between it and me.

I should have used gloves or something to handle the damned book. Well, live and learn, and I certainly do seem to be learning.

--A--


	37. Chapter 37

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Sorry this took so long. Real life threw me a curve ball – but hopefully it won't be long before updates resume more regularly.

--A--

Chapter Thirty-Seven

--A--

It took me two days to get to the Imperial City, namely due to the fact I emerged from Sundercliff Watch in the dead of night. My injured ankle also slowed me down, but not as much as broken ribs would have. True to my word, I didn't look for Oblivion Gates, so I didn't find any. Or maybe my brothers ranged this far north, so any searching might have ended up futile.

After a night in the Imperial City, I gathered all my things from the Arcane University before starting north towards Bruma. Thankfully, I got my ankle taken care of before leaving. Tar-Meena didn't disappoint me – by the time I left, she was wound up, ready to whip the battlemages into action and send them to finish clearing out Sundercliff Watch.

She forgot to ask if I found what I was looking for.

--A--

Bruma brooded under steely gray clouds when I arrived around mid-afternoon. The air smelled of snow – even though spring was stretching towards summer. The weather looked so threatening I detoured to take refuge in the guildhall. I don't want to get caught in transit to Cloud Ruler Temple if it snows – because snows in the Jerall mountains are usually accompanied by high winds, and I have an irrational, unfounded fear of getting swept off the mountain path like a pebble.

Death by 'dashed on the rocks' is not enticing in the least. If I've got to die –and I have _no_ plans for doing it anytime soon (things are starting to get _interesting_! For the first time in my life, my life is my own – no way I'm going to give that up without a fight!) – I want to do it in some flashy manner, not because I was a lightweight and got blown off a mountainside.

It sounds like a stupid way to go, even inside my head.

"Breezy? Bumph? Hellooo! Anyone home?" I called, sweeping into the guildhall, setting Frostreaver inside the doorway. Since I'm refusing to let it stand in a corner of the Arcane University with a broom, I have to move it to a new location the old fashioned way. Tar-Meena promised changing it's location would not affect my ability to call it – all the same, I fully intend to test this thoroughly, before trusting my life to it.

One of these days, she's going to be wrong, and I don't want it to be a day when I need her to be _right_.

Where _are _those two? Anyway, usually they'll at least yell at me not to yell while I'm indoors…I reached back for Frostreaver, feeling disquiet settle. I hope nothing really bad has happened to them…

"They're not here, Lirah," Julius announced, stepping out of the dining room, a book in his hand, an apple in the other. His eyes performed the now-familiar sweep across my face, but he did not give any indication what he saw unsettled him, unless it was the way his eyes lingered on the way my hand had strayed back to Frostreaver prior to his entrance.

Like a child going for her security toy. Roge must have warned him I look a bit odd these days. Fortunately for me, my temper hasn't flared strangely, and the nightmares have all but quit. At least, they don't cause any more disturbance than me waking up in the middle of the night in a sweat.

My smile dropped, shattering on the floor, so surprised at seeing Julius – the _Guildmaster_, and my very favorite brother - when I least expected him. He's trimmed his hair again. You wouldn't know to look at him, but he's an expert in picking fights. He gets in your head and the next thing you know – bam. It's a little scary if you don't have immunity – as I do. "J-J-Jules…" I stammered stupidly, my mind changing tracks. "How did you…"

Why's he here? Well, I can think of several good reasons, but I didn't expect him to make the 'come back home now' thing official for a couple more weeks. Damn – and I still can't tell him _why _I can't come back just yet…which makes it look like I'm either in trouble or making trouble. Julius is even more duty-oriented than _I_ am – he'd only leave Leyawiin to talk to me if things were really, really bad. It means he's left someone else in charge.

"Bumph and Right-Wind felt you must be based near Bruma, so I figured I would come and see for myself," Julius answered conversationally. "Since you're here now, do you have time for tea?" he asked, smiling at me.

Beginning to feel a little edgy – not the least because I could see him picking out the differences in my face now – I nodded once, letting Frostreaver drop back against the wall with a dull thunk. "Sure. It looks like snow – I didn't want to get caught in it."

"I noticed. It's not going to, though. Not down here, anyway," his eyes flashed in my direction. He's probing for reactions – of the five of us, he's the only one who has learned how to get inside other people's heads. The rest of us belong to the Modryn Oreyn school of diplomacy: _give your ultimatum, if that doesn't work, hit them with whatever you've got handy_. Good old Uncle Modryn…I ought to drop in on him sometime.

Meanwhile, let's see if anything useful has rubbed off on me since I joined the Blades.

I followed Julius to a comfortable corner in the dining room, sitting down across from him and letting him pour tea for us both.

He _waited_ for me. Julius doesn't have _time_ to just sit around an empty guildhall for no reason. "So, how are the others?" I inquired, unwilling to help him get to whatever his point was. I think I might already know – and it'll be because Roge told him I've gone crazy.

"Well – they miss you," Julius answered, handing over my unsweetened tea. "Mum and Einar send their love." I had to smile at this – mom will always be mom, I suppose.

"I don't take milk anymore," I said quickly, drawing my tea back. This isn't strictly true, but I don't remember the last time I sat down to have tea with someone.

"No?" Julius blinked, his weathered, battered hand on the milk, before returning it to rest on the wood. The moment began to feel very awkward, as if we both knew where it was going, and weren't in a hurry to help the unpleasant point come to the fore.

"Roge said the Guild is taking care of the Oblivion Gates – is that true? How's it going?" I inquired, sipping the infusion. I come from a family that likes their tea strong enough to stand a spoon in. I'm the exception – hence the former disposition of adding sugar and lots of milk. Still, this stuff isn't bad – it's not the local stuff.

"Yes, that's true. Roge says you're very well-acquainted with the mechanics of it," Julius noted lightly. "I heard a rumor you were at Kvatch, when it was sacked."

"Did you?" I inquired, arching my eyebrows at him. It's one of his own tricks, and his mouth twitched towards a smile, at the audacity of his little sister trying his own tricks back at him.

"Oh yes, Bruma, Cheydinhal – your reputation precedes you, in many cases." He paused to sip his tea. "There _is_ only one red-haired girl with a weapon like yours in the Guild. Probably in all Cyrodiil. It doesn't matter they don't get your name right – people who know you will make the connection."

"What do they call me? Nothing unflattering I hope." A cold chill settled in my stomach as Martin's words echoed back to me.

"They call you the Gatewalker. It seems you've finally picked up a name for yourself," Julius announced looking into his tea, as if for guidance. Apparently he knows trying to corner me isn't the way to go.

Gossip spreads faster than a cold – I haven't heard the last of this, I'm sure. "Well, you know how it is with gossip," I responded, with a shrug, taking another long sip of my tea, letting it burn all the way down into my stomach. "This is really good, Jules, where'd you get it?"

"It's Yokudan in origin," Julius responded, then he sighed, and refilled both our cups, more for something not do than anything else. "I'm here in an official capacity, Lirah," Julius said gently, touching my bruised hand, concern brimming in his eyes. I forgot about the bruise – I don't even remember where I got it. It wasn't in Sundercliff Watch – the bruise is already turning green.

"I kind of thought you might be," I sighed, sipping my tea to give myself for a moment to think. "Then I'll be up front as well. You want to know when I'm coming back?" I didn't look at him. This is it, the moment of truth, where I find out exactly where I stand in the world. Am I the little sister, or the Blade?

Up until recent weeks, I would have quailed under the stern but not accusatory look Julius gave me. However, between getting involved with the Blades –who still don't treat me like a mascot – and finally making friends of my own, outside the guild, I can't go back to Leyawiin. Aside from which, Martin needs my sense of humor, or he'll be surrounded by perpetually worried and grumpy people. A little optimism goes a long way.

Never mind the fact I simply _like_ being around him – my crush on him quite aside - I don't care whether he's a priest, an heir-apparent or the guy down the street, I really do like him.

Julius nodded. His hand feels oddly cold against mine, though I'm sure if this was something to do with him, or just me, as it seems so often of late. "Mother and Father would like to know – though they don't harp on it quite as much as the others. And Roge misses you, very much. He's very worried."

I smiled wistfully, but the smile faded. "I honestly don't know, Julius. I wish I could say but things are…busy and complicated." I'm not allowed to tell you, Jules, so please don't ask.

Unlike the other three would do, Julius nodded. Unlike the other three, Julius has cultivated his _brain_, so he changed tracks. "Can you at least tell me what you're up to?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, Guildmaster, but I can't do that," I withdrew my hand from the comforting protection of my big brother's with an effort, before folding it with the other before me on the table.

Julius' expression read complete shock, even worry.

"As it stands, my skills are required for non-guild matters," I declared, watching him levelly. "That said, you would be well within your right to tell me to choose where I find employ. Unfortunately…I would not be able to tell you what you want to hear." I drained more of my tea for something to do, a reason to look away from Jules' face. "You'll have to find a new artifact recovery expert, Jules. I'm sorry."

"You'd…quit the Guild? But..." He looked completely floored, now squinting at me, as though he didn't recognize me at all. "But the Guild's everything to you."

"That's right," I nodded, finally looking away from my study of the face I know. He's starting to go silver, I can see the pale hairs when he turns his head. "But in this case, for the sake of the Guild, I will bow out, if you ask me to." Or if you force my hand, though I didn't want to say this. I'm not sure how much more appalled I can make Julius look.

"Bow…out?" Julius sounded like he'd never heard the words before.

I remained silent. It takes so much energy to maintain my cheerful, almost blasé attitude, I simply don't have the energy or the motivation to do it in front of Julius.

"Can you at least tell me…how long this is going to last?" Julius asked.

"I don't know. I gave someone my word." Giving your word is a big deal in my family. "I'm in for the duration – I don't know how long…"

Julius immediately changed tracks. "You look like hell, Lirah! What about that?" Julius demanded, but before he could get any further I nodded in agreement, holding up a hand to forestall his concerns.

"You're right. It's the Oblivion Gates. They've got a…a bad effect on me," I responded choosing my words with great care. "Don't ask about that either – but I will tell you a little of the why, if you like."

This effectively stopped Julius' argument. It was so effective he looked like I'd hit him across the face. "Why?" he asked, taking in my reddened eyes, the hollowing face, the…_otherness_. "It's got a _bad effect_?" he repeated.

"Yes. I'm an isolated case, your people aren't at the same risk," I responded. "You know I've closed a fair few Oblivion Gates. It's hard work, it takes a toll on you, after awhile." He doesn't need to know about the Mysterium Xarxes – namely since I can't tell him about it without giving him a lot of information he's safer without.

Martin and Jauffre and the others are safer, too, if Julius doesn't know about them.

All the color in Julius' face ran out of it and he got quickly to his feet, with the air of 'brother on a mission'. The problem is, he still doesn't know who's face to bash in. "Who…_why_…? Roge didn't have…"

"First of all, I'm not Roge – he's a lot bigger than I am, if you'll recall." Okay, so I'm lying now. The world's coming to an end. "Secondly, what do you mean _why_?" I asked, my voice taking on a harsher note, startling both of us, though I suspect me more than him, as I know what it means. I've felt it do that after closing Gates…must be a warning sign.

Reaching up, I massaged my throat before continuing. I don't want to snarl at Jules. It's strange but I can feel brotherly love permeating the air, just like his cologne. I can't bring myself to fault him for caring, for wanting to protect me. I won't. Voice back under control, I looked back up at him. "Sorry, my voice slipped," I announced as a preamble. "It's a minor side effect." And not nearly the worst. "You asked me why. _Because it has to be done_. You know that."

"But why _you_?" Julius demanded helplessly. "I thought Roge was exaggerating when he told me you weren't…weren't _well_," Julius finished lamely.

I got to my feet, smiling at him, before reaching over to grip his shoulder in one hand. "I have the strength, the power, the skill – whatever – to do it. Therefore, I'm honor bound to try. You know that as well – you four made sure I learned that." I hugged his neck. "Don't worry about me Jules. I'm okay. I promise." An extra squeeze, and I let go of his shoulder.

"This is okay?" Jules asked.

"Yes, this is okay." I answered calmly. "It's okay because…I'm _happy_."

Jules got to his feet, looking at me, as if I wasn't quite in focus. "Are you? Are you really?"

I nodded. "I am. And if you want me to stay happy, Jules…you're going to have to let me go."

Jules closed his eyes, as if I'd mortally wounded him. "Ailirah…"

"I know. It was a long time ago, Jules. You four grew up. I've grown up…but for me to be happy I need to be my own protector for awhile." Swallowing thickly I looked down at the table.

"What's brought on this change of heart?" Jules asked.

"Because at twenty six, I shouldn't have to catalogue every minute of every day to my _brothers._" I responded.

"Ailirah, just tell me you're not…"

"_I'm not_, what the hell kind of question is _that_?!" I demanded, blushing.

He wants to know if I'm pregnant.

Julius actually turned pink as well. "Just…you know. Worried about you."

"Yeah, well, thanks to you four I've never even been _kissed_!" I snapped, much more like my usual self. "I'm ready to sign the resignation papers, Jules. Either that, or you're just going to have to _trust me_. You do trust me, don't you?" I asked, seeing a sneaky way to win the argument.

"You know I do…"

"Then _show_ me trust, don't just say it. I'll let you know when I know something about coming back to the guild. Okay?"

Julius sighed. "And you're really happy?" He asked dubiously.

"I'm very happy, Jules."

Julius did not like losing the argument, conceding his point, or letting his little sister out from under his protective wing.

But he did it anyway.

--A--


	38. Chapter 38

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Thirty-Eight

--A--

Jules and I had lunch together, making pleasant small-talk as the threatening clouds overhead began to break up. I think I'd given Jules more to think about than I meant to – I could almost see him drawing conclusions, then scrutinizing them as to the likelihood. I'm sure the reality is quite a bit different than anything he comes up with.

But he'll be close. He usually is.

"And your new weapon? Einar wondered how that was working out for you," Jules remarked as I continued drying the dishes we'd used for lunch.

"It's his best yet – though I do argue the appropriateness of the mascot on it." I responded, but I smiled slightly. It's only funny because Einar is my father – if it were anyone else, I'd find it insulting. But…I _am _daddy's little girl.

Jules gave me a wicked grin. "I thought you might like that."

"_You_ thought?" I hate you, Jules.

Jules cackled again, for a moment the unrepentant older brother, as he reached over and ruffled my hair, something he hasn't done in _ages_ – because as the Guildmaster he's expected to maintain a certain amount of decorum. "According to _you_, I'm the only one of us who does."

I grit my teeth. Jules and his sense of humor…

You know, part of me begins to wonder, if I might not love my brothers better if we didn't work together. The irritation over the dancing chipmunk emblem vanished rather quickly, compared to the usual duration for annoyance aimed in Jules' direction.

--A--

I watched Jules leave the Guildhall, then gathered up Frostreaver after a further twenty minutes – time for him to get well ahead of me. I'm afraid I don't trust him not to hide somewhere, then sneak after me, to find out where I'm headed. What's the world coming to?

An ashy burned end, if we can't figure out some sort of better plan.

Despite the way the clouds allowed feeble sunlight to stream between them, they still gathered menacing to the west – the direction weather in the Jerall Mountains tends to come from. It's going to snow up at Cloud Ruler Temple – I wonder if I can even get there before it starts? Probably not. The downside of being short is short _legs_ – which means slower travel times. Craaap! Oh well I'll just bunk at the guildhall…it's not like the place is haunted. I _believe_ in ghosts. It's hard to _not_ believe in ghosts, once you've had to fight one – trust me…

"_Ailirah_?"

What is it with me running into people? With my mental ramble interrupted, I turned to find Caro stepping out of Olav's Tap and Tack, dressed to brave the impending chill the storm promised, and armed to the teeth. Her expression consisted of a mix of shock, surprise, worry and I thought I saw her wince.

"Heya Caro," I announced as pleasantly as I could. "What are you doing down here?" Not that she can go where she likes – she's just not the cagiest person I know. Usually it's the rest of us who get jittery – yes, myself inclusive.

"Uh...just stuff," she said evasively, but the look on her face made me certain stuff mean 'Blades' Stuff – top secret'. "You know."

"Oh, I see." Feeling awkward, I shrugged. "Well, better get it done – that storm's going to be nasty." I pointed skyward.

"I need to talk to you," she said quietly, striding forward, mumbling so I almost didn't hear her.

"The guildhall's empty," I answered, looking away from her. "Meet me there."

We parted ways. Caro gives off the aura of someone who doesn't want to get caught, be overheard, or otherwise draw outsider attention to her presence. I, on the other hand, noticed people turning to look at me. It's the red hair and Frostreaver….

Unwanted notoriety. What happened to the simple life, dungeon diving for fun and profit?

Answer: life simply got interesting.

Back in the Guildhall, Caro turned up a few moments later. "I put tea on." I remarked simply, beckoning her into the kitchen.

"So…you, ah…kind of disappeared." Caro sat down at the small table when I waved her away from the kettle. Too many cooks, Caro.

"Yeah." Nodding I fetched clean mugs and set them down. I know from experience Caro doesn't believe in teacups, like Jules does. I actually agree with her – what good is a tiny delicate little cup that doesn't hold nearly enough tea? Give me a big sturdy mug any day of the year. And biscuits – but since Bumph and Breezy aren't here there's no hope of biscuits unless I make them myself.

I simply don't have the time – unless I stay overnight in Bruma. I may well have to.

"So…who was that guy?" Caro asked as I poured the hot water. I couldn't help but notice the mild interest which I'm sure does _not_ stem from the broadsword across his back, so much as the broad shoulders. Well, my brothers did get good looks from our parents. This gave way to the flickering thought of whether or not I would ever want Caro in my family.

The idea has appeal.

"My second-eldest brother, Julius Truesteel." I answered, with a shrug of feigned indifference. I'm not in the mood to deal with my family problems just now – though the revelation of who exactly planted the idea of Frostreaver's unique etching made me smile almost against my will. I'll bet Einar got a chuckle out of that.

At the moment, though, I'm more interested in this top secret business Caro is on – she's not the type to call a shopping trip 'top secret' – whatever it is, it's _real_. And if there's one thing I am – apart from a dancing chipmunk, or some weird Daedra-flavored human – it's _curious_.

"The guildmaster?" Caro's pale eyebrows rose towards her hairline.

Nodding once I returned the kettle to the heat and settled in a chair opposite Caro, frowning at my hot water before sighing heavily. "Yeah, that's the one."

"What did he want?" Caro's tone wavered hesitantly, but I could tell she was worried. My trouble with the guild is pretty common knowledge. Goodness knows I've bitched about it, quietly, before.

"Wanted to know why I wasn't home yet, same as usual," I grunted. "He hasn't asked me to resign yet, he hasn't _fired_ me yet, but I'm about ready to save him the trouble. Then I can shout at him without worrying about alienating the Guildmaster. Fetcher." It felt good to bitch a little about my brother. Just because I understand the protectiveness, the concern, doesn't mean I enjoy it, or even appreciate it all of the time.

As far as I can tell, I'm becoming a competent individual in my own right. I keep getting fewer and fewer bumps and bruises every time I go out. Maybe there _is_ something to not staying a part of the family business.

"Brothers, huh?" Caro offered sympathetically. Silence stretched. "Can I ask where you went? No one seemed to know – we were getting a little worried." Caro said shifting with discomfort.

"You were worried before I left," I responded neutrally, watching her wince. Damn, this is awkward. "I got tired of walking on eggshells, and making everyone else nervous, so I asked permission to take some time for myself. Give you lot a change to settle down." I responded, half-truthfully. "It's Yokudan – it's really good," I added, finishing the tea.

Julius brought a whole jar of it, apparently, which he left in the kitchen for me to discover. Actually, the jar is going in my backpack before I leave – there's no way this stuff should languish all alone and undrunk in a dark, empty guildhall. No, I much prefer taking it back to Cloud Ruler Temple – Baurus and Cyrus will like it, for sentimental reasons if nothing else. It'll also be a good chance for others to get a taste of another province – especially the ones who have done absolutely no serious travel in all their lives.

It must be horrible to be so sheltered. Worse than too many protective brothers.

"Thanks…" Caro took a sip of the tea and grimaced, which prompted me to nudge the sugar in her direction. "Wow…that's really strong..." She rasped, her eyes watering.

I looked at the tea – it's not _that_ stung – I brewed it weak on purpose, so as not to take the roof of her mouth off. I like it strong, most other people don't. "Course it is – it's a trait for most Yokudan food." I answered, with a shrug, sipping my tea. Except the cheese – I hate mluo. Four brothers rendered crude by a good fight, a long day, and a couple ales, and I won't touch the stuff _ever again_.

Ugh.

Caro looked at me. "Look, I'm sorry." she said in a rush, spitting it out to get it over with.

"For what?" I asked benignly. If she's apologizing, I don't need to hear it – it means she's come around, and that's what matters to me. Call me gullible, but I'd rather have friends than most of the population of Cloud Ruler Temple tiptoeing around me, like I'm carrying some highly contagious, very nasty disease.

Caro gave me one of those looks, indicating she knew what I meant but didn't quite believe it, so I shrugged. "It doesn't matter, Caro. Really, it doesn't."

Caro's mouth twitched. "Can you just accept an apology _gracefully_?" She asked, testing the waters.

Looking up, I smirked. "Since when do I do _anything_ gracefully? Uh, barring those situations that require a sword." I added quickly, seeing Caro's mischievous glance.

"Good point." Caro nodded, grimacing at her now over-sweet tea.

"So, are we good?" I asked, setting my mug down.

Caro nodded, relief evident. "Yeah. yeah, we're good. I don't know about _this_…" she held up her mug. "I don't know what it _is_, but I wouldn't call it _tea_." Grimacing she made another face, sniffed the infusion and shuddered, then set her mug on the table before shoving it away.

"Whatever you need to believe, Caro," I teased. "Now, let's hurry up, because I don't want to get caught…"

"You can't go up there just now." Caro cut in, shaking her head. "Finish your drink – we could be here a while."

"Why not? They didn't let Rols cook did they?" I asked. The rumors about Rols and cooking are…scary, to say the least.

Caro shook her head. "You know he's banned from the kitchen. No, we've got either got a minor infestation of spies or badly advised tourists." She began tracing thoughtful patterns on the table with one finger, her eyes narrowed in thought.

"Spies," I nodded, feeling unsettled. Call me paranoid.

"Most of us think so – and three guesses as to who we think they belong to?" Caro responded, taking an absentminded sip of her tea, grimacing and adding more milk and sugar. All this, however, looked simply like needing something to do with her hands. Meaningless, mundane tasks to keep herself from fidgeting. "What is _in_ this stuff?" She demanded after another sip, at which she got up and moved the mug to a counter, before returning to her chair.

I didn't answer. They're late - I would have expected the Mythic Dawn to send spies to find and watch us ages ago – they definitely knew what direction Martin, Jauffre and I were headed originally. They're especially late if they're just getting started as I just get back – or right on time, if they thought to catch me in transit. Now, is this a response to the dustup at Sundercliff Watch, or because they're finally learning about tactics?

"Captain Steffan sent me to go have a look. Do you want to come with me? Bash some heads?" Caro asked, a little awkwardly.

I shrugged. "Well, it's either that or catch up on all the sleep I'm losing. It's starting to make me look bad," I pulled a face at Caro. "You think I should go on vacation?" I don't believe in 'vacations' – I take missions abroad instead. The idea of going somewhere sheerly for the sake of doing nothing does not appeal to me in the slightest. I can sit around in my own bailiwick and do nothing, for crying out loud.

"You just _finished_ a vacation," Caro prodded the table. "You gave Martin crap about slacking off…" but she grinned devilishly at me anyway. "He hasn't missed a day since. He's getting _really_ good." She added meaningfully. "If it were a real sword, he'd have taken Cyrus' hand off the other day."

I'm sure he is, and I'm sure he would have, with a real sword. That's the point. Martin's also a quick study, an apt learner. I'll bet he's getting ready to try and take _my_ hands off next. Sorry to disappoint you, Martin, but I need them both. But, I'm looking forward to seeing what kind of fight he can put up, now that he's not slacking off. "Okay, okay, I give up." I raised my hands above my head in surrender, grinning broadly. This is more like it.

Honestly, it's good to have the friendly banter back. She still looks a little edgy, but I suppose it will wear off. At least we're talking again – I missed having another girl to chat with, even if we don't usually fill conversations with the traditional topics of girl talk.

Our talks tend to revolve around quality weapons, places we've seen, why so-and-so is such a knucklehead and whether anyone will ever topple Agronak gro-Malog in the Arena. I say fat chance. Caro disagrees.

I didn't realize, until we were out in the blustery Bruma streets, that I hadn't asked for any information regarding the mission, happy to let someone else spearhead it, and simply play backup. It makes a nice change.

However, I noticed I felt the chill a more pronouncedly, and Caro proved remarkably patient when I dug out my gloves and a scarf form my backpack. I hate the cold.

--A--


	39. Chapter 39

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. All right – after a few hiccups on my end, we are back in business!

--A--

Chapter Thirty-Nine

--A--

Caro and I lay flat on our bellies, some way away from the runestone between Cloud Ruler Temple and Bruma. From here, I could barely see the lights of the watch lamps winking and blinking, like stars somehow hanging below the darkening clouds. "They always show up around dark – one for sure, but we think there's actually two." Caro whispered, nerves making her repeat herself.

The wind tugged at my clothes, so I shifted, pinning my cloak more securely beneath me. The terrain offers little cover. We actually chose this cluster of stone to hide within because there are enough gaps near the base we can see through, but no matter which direction you come from, we're hidden. It's a lucky thing – or maybe the Blades set it up years ago – you never know with these secret society types. "Look, there." Wandering down from the temple, a lone figure, a dim magelight, little more than a pinprick of red at this distance, wended his way – the oddity was, he wasn't taking the path, but taking the shortcut down the treacherous steep sides of it.

"I don't see…" Caro frowned.

It struck me, I probably only saw him because he was moving. Feeling vaguely like a predator under cover, I shifted. "I thought Jauffre had general orders that we weren't supposed to wander around." So how'd he get _out_? Of course, he could have used magicka – there are spells to render one unseen, and spells that might help him get out of the Temple.

"He does – if it's one of ours…" Caro broke off, looking over at me, worry plain on her face. It's a painful choice: do we trust our man, or do we assume he's not really ours? Prudence insists upon the latter, loyalty and team solidarity insist the former. It makes my head hurt.

"Steffan would have told you," I answered grimly, watching the figure growing larger, stumbling and sliding several feet with a muffled curse I barely heard.

Caro swallowed. "But what if he _is_? What if they just didn't get word to me? Of if he _is_ the word, and something's come up?"

Biting my lip, I considered. "We'll wait and see." I don't buy it, or maybe I'm paranoid, looking everywhere for traitors. "Just…let's just stay down – none of this charging them at first opportunity..." Some people in the world would never believe I just said something like that.

Caro elbowed me hard, jerking her head indicating she saw the spy moving from the Bruma side.

Falling silent I concentrated on breathing quietly, though my heartbeat just might give us away, rattling around like it is. Peering around Caro as best I could, I found my view blocked by our cover, then subsided. Eternity seemed to tick past was the two figures travelled, then finally converged at the runestone. Wishing I had a spell, and the strength to cast one, to snatch the words from their conversation, I strained my ears, watching Caro do the same.

"..You're late." The Blade was saying, his tone rife with irritation as he continuously scanned the immediate area, looking for eavesdroppers. "If they see me, I'm done for."

"Then you should have been more careful," the woman from Bruma was saying. Her head was swathed in a scarf and hood, so I couldn't see much of her, but her voice was rather coarse, as if she didn't like the man she was dealing with. Well, people who play both ends against the middle usually wind up with both ends coming after them, sooner or later.

"Careful! You're lucky we're not both dead yet," the man snapped. I've heard his voice before, but only in passing. A touchy sort, as I recall, he came in after I got there, when the rest of the operatives in the immediate area were called to the Temple. "That pet hero of theirs disappeared again – no one knows why, no one knows _where_, except the toothless old geezer and that bastard Septim. It's too much to hope the dumb bitch will get herself killed. She's got a con artist's luck," he concluded, his tone sullen.

I smirked, despite the way my temper rose at the barrage of insults, but the grin was short-lived. Perhaps the rather weak insults simply fueled an anger bubbling in my guts already – if Blades can't trust each other, who _can _we trust? This is going to give the people I trust _nightmares_. Particularly Baurus and Jauffre.

Calm, Ailirah…but the animosity in the words made my temper waver, preparing to flare. The implications made my skin grow hot, and I felt heat building behind my eyes. All of of a sudden I feel incredibly over dressed. Loosening my scarf, I kept waiting for steam to gush free. It's getting _really_ warm.

"What can she do? She's not even here, like you said." The woman demanded dismissively. "Push her out a window if you get a chance. It makes no difference. What matters right now is what _you_ do. It's time. The word is go. Cripple them…"

"It's in progress." The man grunted. "You don't need to tell me how to do my job, Jearl – I've been at it long enough."

"Ksh!" The woman hissed. "Fool! You don't know…"

"Look around you, woman! There's no one here!" Apparently, he's satisfied this is true. I love it when people I don't like are wrong.

"We have to stop him from getting back," Caro breathed in my ear.

I nodded. "We can find her again, easy enough – just don't forget her name," I responded, very softly indeed.

Jearl and her Blade ally argued a bit longer, then split apart, Jearl apparently in a towering temper as she swept away, her ally waiting, then turning to slip back up towards the temple. "He doesn't know you're here," I noted, moving so I could regain my feet, as silently as I could.

"No – it's a secret…you think Steffan knows we've been infiltrated...if that's what this is?" Caro asked.

"No idea," I had only a hazy idea who Steffan was to begin with. "Come on, let's nail this cretin…" I seized hold of Frostreaver as Caro checked that Jearl was far enough away she wouldn't see us move.

"Let's go," and with that Caro and I took off at a jog. Once I'd closed half the distance between myself and the spy, I sank Frostreaver into the ground, so I wouldn't have it in hand, before breaking away at a sprint. Caro stifled a bark of warning – that I shouldn't act impulsively, probably – I don't care.

He heard me with twenty feet to go, turning almost in slow motion, his expression shifting form scowling in anger to complete shock.

Ten feet. He reached for his sword, his eyes wide with shock as he registered exactly _who_ was charging him down.

He never got the weapon loose. I jumped, tackling him with all the force I'd ever used to knock someone out of harm's way in the past, only this time I latched onto him, slamming into him with all the force of a charging clannfear. The whole time one thought echoed in my head: _you're mine_.

We hit the embankment he meant to climb and rolled in a tangled heap down to land. I landed on top of him, and immediately punched him in the face, feeling his nose break. He screeched in pain, but the sounds were muffled by my hand, with his cloak wadded in it, shoved against his mouth. "Shut up," I snarled and slammed his head back against the ground once.

Caro hurried over, looking from me to the man, startled at the vehemence of the attack. "Lirah, let him go."

I scowled at her, watching her expression tauten. "I'm not going to kill him, Caro, I just don't want him trying any funny shit," I snarled, climbing off his chest and dragging him to kneeling by the hair. "I'm no good as an interrogator…too heavy-handed."

"Look, we've got a contact in the Watch. He can question this scumbag for a while," she gave the man a none too gentle poke with the toe of her boot, "and maybe we can wrangle permission to go after Jearl without crossing the Watch. They take it personally around here, when the Blades start poking around too long and closely. Aside from which, it sounds like there's…_more_ of them up there…" Caro swallowed. "You think we should split up?"

It cost me something to take the most sensible course of action. "Not exactly. Run and get your contact. I'll keep _him_ here. The Watch will look less suspicious, people will simply make all sorts of _assumptions_," I explained briskly. "We can talk more freely here than in the city…"

Caro nodded. "You sure…?"

"He's worth more alive just now." Knocking him face-down on the ground is at down over the small of his back. The man stirred feebly, unable to get up, with me sitting where I was. "Hurry up."

From the sound of the conversation; it seems there's another spy. How come no one caught this? That we've been infiltrated? And if there are more than one, it means he or she has free run of the Temple, possible access to Martin, and all the motive in the world for a quiet assassination.

Can I bet on Baurus and Cyrus' paranoia about security to keep Martin safe? Frowning at the face of the semi-conscious turncoat, I gave him another smack when he moved to look at me. "Hold still, _s'wit_, or I'm going to give you a _reason_ to squirm," I snarled nastily, feeling my temper rise.

He laughed – with difficulty, considering he could hardly breathe properly, with me treating him like a chair. "You're too late."

"So you people keep saying." I smacked him upside the head. "Shut it."

--A--

If Captain Burd, Caro's contact, was surprised to find a smoldering half-Imperial sitting in the middle of a man's back outside his city, he hid his surprise very well, though he eyed Frostreaver with particular interest. "Good timing - he's _annoying_ me," I grunted, getting to my feet, and stomping once on the spy's back to keep him down.

"I explained the situation to the Captain," Caro was saying, as two of Burd's men passed me, eyeing me curiously, before hauling the spy none to gently to his feet. I could hear the man gasping to breathe properly, now he could.

"We'll see what he's got to say for himself," Captain Burd smile thinly. I like the look of this Captain – he's competent, he knows how the world works, how to get a job done and get it done right.

"Mm," I nodded then turned, peering at the spy, who tried to spit at me, but failed because his captors had anticipated something like that. "You're better off with the nice watch officers," I breathed, grabbing a handful of his hair, and giving him by best sadistic look – normally it's not very good, but I look pretty ghastly when I get angry, these days. "You'll be safer."

"Easy, miss," one of the officers cautioned.

Looking up I caught a red reflection in his breastplate - my own eyes, shining ruby-red in their sockets. "Of course," I responded as courteously as I could manage. "If anything happens to any of _our _people," I directed at the spy. "Pray you can hang yourself in your cell before I find you."

He believed me, finally. I could see it in the way his pupils contracted.

Turning on my heel I stalked over to Caro, feeling like a stone in the sun, radiating heat.

"You okay?" Caro asked nervously.

"Irritated. I'm all right," I answered.

"You're sure you're looking for Jearl?" Burd directed this question at me, rather than Caro.

Glancing at Caro, I found her looking at me expectantly.

I don't want to be in charge today! I'm in a bad mood! Mustering my reserves of calm, I took a slow breath, feeling the inside of my sinuses burn slightly, as if I'd gotten whiff of something spicy. "That's the name he used. Captain, it's very important we find out whether he has allies we haven't identified yet. That they've operated in Bruma undetected so long is worrisome. Not the least hiding their activity from you." So I'm putting it on a bit thick. I'll bet he takes it as a personal insult that there are spies in Bruma to begin with.

"Well, you work on the spy you know about, we'll work on what he knows," Burd responded, radiating calm, much as I radiated something almost discordant. "I'll have it put about that you and Caroline are working with us on this one. Corporal?"

A lad bounced up, looking like an excited terrier, practically shaking with expectancy. "Sir!"

"Take Caro and the Gatewalker here to Jearl's place, let them poke around…you keep out of their way, mind." Burd shook warning finger at the corporal, who wilted slightly.

"It'll get messy," Caro predicted, giving the lad a dark look.

He looked at me. "You've got your orders. I won't supersede them," I reasoned with a shrug. I don't know if Blades can, but I chose the wording for a reason.

The corporal sighed, then nodded.

"Good – once you've got Jearl taken care of…come find us. We'll let you know what we know." With that Burd and his men trooped off, dragging the spy with them, leaving Caro and I with the Corporal. "What's your name?" I asked off-handedly.

"Lars, ma'am."

"Well, let's go, Lars." Looking at Caro I bit my lip, falling back until Caro and I trailed a good five or six feet behind Lard. Leaning over to Caro I spoke very softly, so past Caro's ears the words would get lost. "What did you tell Burd, exactly?"

"The truth – he's got spies in Bruma, and this is Jauffre's way of paying him back for all the help Burd's given us over the years. Jauffre won't mind me bringing his name into this." Caro answered, equally quietly. "Burd won't ask questions if we haul one off to question ourselves, so long as he's got one to hold accountable, and Burd knows what questions to ask. I think he may have suspected a problem out of his line of sight before now. He's a good man, Burd. Smart enough not to ask questions he knows will make his life complicated." Caro vouched, eyeing Lars' back, making sure he didn't flag his pace to eavesdrop.

It doesn't look as though he's realized Caro and I have fallen behind. It's just as well - this conversation is private.

"Does he know the extent of the problem?"I asked. It's not as if I mistrust Caro, thinking she has loose lips, I simply want to know exactly what impressions Burd labors under, so I don't blow them in future.

"It's okay." Caro assured, but her face said she didn't believe the words. "There may not be more."

"I just get the feeling there _are_. And I'm down here." Fretting won't do anyone any good, but I can't help it. And I know Jauffre would go batshit crazy if he found out Caro and I walked away from a nest of spies here in Bruma, regardless of any other reasoning. People who could carry tales that they'd finally gotten caught. I can see Burd keeping the fact he caught a spy quiet for a while, but people talk. And not all of them share the virtue discretion – usually I fall in that category.

"Of course he doesn't, he just thinks they're down here – he's already got half the guard bracing for an attack...he'll have Bruma ready for one because he assumes it's the only reason spies would be interested."

"And Cloud Ruler Temple's not enough of a point of interest?" I asked, frowning. "Which makes me wonder..."

"Why the locals don't know about it?" Caro giggled conspiratorially here. "Well, some of them have trained themselves to ignore it. And it's usually hidden by clouds." Caro answered, still grinning, as if waiting for me to take a bait.

"No, it's not..." I frowned. "Usually when I look over the battlements. I can see for miles..." I stopped, Caro was still grinning. And yet...it rains _overhead_.

"Well, I call them clouds. It's a glamor, a semi-permanent illusion which makes it look like the mountain peak is usually swathed in clouds. It can't be a constant spell for some reason or another – I'm no mage, and I didn't understand when Kullain explained it to me – but the gist of it is, we can see down through the spell, but someone down below can't just look up and see us. Which means most people think the place is abandoned. And it's got a reputation as a place not to go. Too many centuries of ghost stories." Caro smirked. "Guess who's responsible for those."

"You're joking." I grunted, surprised. Come to think of it, I may have seen Cloud Ruler Temple's hummock on top of the mountain a couple times, from down in Bruma but usually...usually all I see are clouds, until I get up on the path...because one, I'm paying attention to the path and not what's hundreds of feet above my head, and two I've _never_ had to struggle through heavy fogs...which I would have to do, if the clouds were real...

Hot damn. What a concept. I wonder if Martin knows about this...and if it would interest him at all. It sounds like big magicka to me – the kind that takes multiple mages.

"Still – what can one person do, assuming there _is _another agent."

"Better we assume there is," I lowered my voice, anxiously. "It makes sense. As to what can they do, that's easy. Poison the wells. Poison the food stores. Strategic assassinations – the list goes on. Hence why we assume there's a genuine threat." I grunted. "We have our own well, don't we?" It occurs to me I've never actually seen it, nor thought to ask.

"Of course…" but Caro had gone pale, probably conjuring up her own list of worst cases.

Forget worst case – think long term worst case. More than just if it came down to the Blades having to fall back, for whatever reason, we'd need the well more than the food. And if it were ever compromised…it'd be a really short siege. And wouldn't that just be too bad for us?

Fetchers. I hope I get to be part of whatever detail goes after Mankar Camoran and his Dagonites. There's a spot under my boot that should be comfortable for him.

"I'll have a look when we get back….but we can't put it about we're looking for someone…or they'll get wind." Glancing over at Lars, who had turned and finally realized Caro and I lagged behind. "Not in front of the kid." I mumbled.

"Don't need to tell me that." But Caro grinned anyway as we both picked up our paces and trotted to walk with Lars, one of us on either side of him. I smiled innocuously – though some may call it a wildly transparent attempt to force conversation. "You're new, aren't you?"

"No ma'am. Been serving three years so far," he announced proudly, puffing out his chest.

"What do you know about Jearl?" Caro asked, as I subsided into silence, a little surprised by Lars' answer. He _acts_ like a really raw recruit. I half-forgot, after so much plotting and reasoning with Caro, that Jearl and the Cloud Ruler Temple agent were – at the moment – two totally separate problems. I had to stop myself asking her if _this_ was her idea of subtle, before realizing the only person who probably needs to worry about subtlety...

...is me. Damn.

"Oh, her," Lars shrugged. "Not much – she travels a lot, so we see her coming and going when she leaves the city. She does a lot of business down south, or so we heard. Never thought she'd be a spy, though." His expression indicated this was highly exciting, and he probably hopes he'll be allowed to tag along once Caro and I finally get to wherever Jearl is holed up.

"Don't spread that around," Caro snapped.

Lars flinched.

Don't get your hopes up, kid. My vote is to leave you somewhere safe. He's just a little too overenthusiastic – I don't want that to wind up hacking my arm off or something. With a weapon like Frostreaver, I really do need both of them.

Still, I shook my head. Keeping the spies of Bruma quiet isn't in the cards – it's too exciting a thing for a usually quiet city. Bruma takes pride in the keeping of the peace, unlike Cheydinhal. Not the least, my identity as the so-called Gatewalker is attached to this job – it's bound to attract gossip, which can only serve to skew the real issues. So I suppose I should be grateful for small blessings.

"Still, this is exciting!" Lars mirrored my thoughts happily. "I've heard stories about...the Blades," but he looked over at me when he said it. I don't need to ask what he's heard, I can probably come up with a good guess.

"That so?" I grunted, glancing past Lars to see Caro trying not to laugh. She pulled a face which I suppose must be an caricature of my own expression. I do _not _look like I'm sucking on a lemon_._

"Oh yeah...I heard you favor a double-ended sword...where'd you find it? It sounds like a unique weapon." Lars began. Though his enthusiasm made my skin crawl, behind it I could hear the intelligence behind the question. And I suppose it is rare enough a weapon to be considered unique by most people.

"It's Tang Mo." I grunted.

"Hmm. I never heard they had anything like that. Still, it explains a lot." Lars nodded.

"Like what?" Caro asked. I shot her a look when Lars looked away from me.

You're not helping.

I interrupted before Lars could say anything – I'm not going to put up with this for Caro's amusement. "Lars, do you have family?" I asked pleasantly. Forgive me for impatience, intolerance, and a general lack of willpower – but I'm on a job here.

Threaten their families, or present them with a cold hard truth, and people usually sober right up. _If_ you do it right – and I learned to do it from the same person who taught Julius – Uncle Modryn, the master of intimidation. When he tells you to keep your trap shut, you do it. End of story.

"Yes..." Lars nodded, taken aback by the question.

"Do you love them?" I looked over at him, smiling in perhaps a less friendly way than usual. Uncle Modryn would be so proud of me! Not that he isn't always...in fact, never mind, this attempt would probably make him laugh, not the least because it will _work_. And I don't even have to get mean.

"Yes," Lars looked nervous.

"If you love them, you won't ask any more questions about me, or Caro, or all this," I gestured with a finger, indicating the job at hand. "It'll make you a target, and make them targets…and you don't want the kind of scum we're dealing with kicking in your door." I advised with such soft certainty sweat immediately beaded on Lars' face as I held his gaze. "They're very dangerous, very _evil_ people, and they won't care about slitting your throat, or using your family to get to you, because they thought you knew too much. I'd hate to see that happen to a bright lad like you."

Caro fell back a step, and from behind Lars' shoulder smirked at me and winked.

_Good job_.

"Right," Lars nodded, his jaw set, a look of resolve firming up his features. The nervous excitement drained away like water from cupped hands, revealing a competence I admit I didn't expect to see.

--A--


	40. Chapter 40

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty

--A--

Lars stopped at a bend in the street which led through the lower-class residential district of Bruma. The crooked street provided cover, and a way to sneak up fairly close to a house without giving oneself away. My mind kept pulling towards distraction, knowing a viper lay in wait up in Cloud Ruler Temple, possibly unbeknownst to anyone who could do something about it. And yet, orders and necessity remained perfectly clear: we had to deal with the spies we could reach quickly.

I just hope no one misses the traitor Burd's men now have, at least, not until Caro and I get back. It might cause our hidden spy to do something drastic. I think I've just about convinced myself assassinating Martin is out – not the least because Martin could, I'm reasonably sure, put a crimp in that plan himself. I realized it the last time we sparred – I didn't get the same impression of power I got then as when we were en route to Weynon Priory. I don't think anyone has seen that sort of power from him, except me.

Discretion – maybe I ought to take lessons…still. That seems like such a long time ago, too, but it can't really be. It's just perception playing funny tricks with my mind.

No, I think Martin can look after himself, unless our traitor _poisons_ him, because honestly, who looks for poison in their own home – even a temporary one? Which is not a lot of comfort to _me, _stuck down _here_. Gritting my teeth, I felt my temper flare slightly – someone's getting my boot to their ass. At least I'll feel a little better. I hope we find Camoran soon, he won't stand a chance against some half-dozen Blades (myself inclusive).

"Lirah?" Caro kicked my ankle gently, making me start and flinch.

"Yeah?" Looking over I saw the faintest crease between her eyebrows. Her posture radiated concern, as well as mild discomfort. Oh yeah, gotta watch my temper, I wouldn't want to boil over on something.

"Are you even _awake_?" she asked dryly.

"Just worried. Did you come up with a plan, or do we just kick the door in?" I asked, forcing myself into professionalism, beating the concept of 'this is just another job for the Guild' into my worried mind.

"Well, I figured we'd slip in _quietly_ and try not to scare the whole block to death – but your way would undoubtedly be more fun." Caro answered, mild sarcasm in her tone.

"Well, I was going to say," I shot back, smirking, "kick in the door yelling 'on the floor, you sons of bitches', but your way is _decidedly _more diplomatic. By all means, let's proceed." I motioned to the house ahead in an 'after you' fashion.

"Why did I want to work with you again?" Caro teased as I turned to Lars.

"We'll be back in a minute." I announced. "Don't go anywhere." How long do you think it'll take Burd to get a name out of his Mythic Dawn 'guest'? Not longer than it takes Caro and I to clear this place out, I hope. I want to go in, get this done, and get back to Cloud Ruler Temple as quickly as possible.

He nodded, though the grim expression on his face didn't flicker. It's all well and good for people like Caro and I to be glib – I don't know if Caro has family to threaten, and mine can certainly look after themselves.

I almost hope the Mythic Dawn or someone in with them tries to get to me by going through my family. It'll be the last and biggest mistake they'll ever make – not to mention my brothers would pound the answer of 'what's Lirah doing that requires such elaborate attempts to get at her' out of the unlucky individual, and then I wouldn't have to explain I'm now a member of the Blades, playing gopher and occasional swordsmanship teacher for Martin who's our last hope to stop the Oblivion invasion, being the Emperor's son…

Yeah, they won't believe me, even if I tell them the truth. They'll laugh and ask whether I've got a boyfriend hidden somewhere, or if I was using moon sugar in my spare time, to come up with such a ridiculous story. Oh well.

"You're smirking," Caro noted as we walked up to the door Lars had identified as Jearl's.

"Yeah." I nodded, pausing at the house's porch. Who wants to go first?

"Dare I ask?" Caro asked as she nonverbally volunteered to go first, stepping up the door, as I stepped off to the left, ready to step in quickly after her.

"Just thinking what my brothers would say – or possibly _do_ – if I told them the truth about what I'm really up to." I responded.

"What do they think you're up to?" Caro asked, grinning slightly.

"What's every big brother _not_ want to hear his little sister is doing?" I asked. "Make a list and you'll have an answer."

"Ah, one moment." Caro produced a lockpick, and knelt.

"You're going to pick the lock?" I asked, frowning. I don't believe this – who'd have thought _Caro_, whom I consider a kindred spirit and fellow member of the School of Smash would turn out to have sneaky skills? Consider me disillusioned.

Kneeling by her shoulder – you know, this method is undoubtedly _quieter_ than mine, we might even _surprise _Jearl and her compatriot, if they're both here – I peered at the lockpick. "That's not…"

"No, it's not," Caro responded evenly, breaking the lockpick, before fishing another one out. Looking up, she saw me gaping in surprise. "I wasn't always a Blade you know…but a couple skills have carried over." She smirked.

Hmm – interesting.

The lock clicked softly within moments of Caro poking and prodding with her lockpick. I'm all thumbs with lockpicks, it's nice to know there's someone in the same boat as me.

Caro eased the door open, slipping into the darkened room. "There's no one here," she murmured softly, as if expecting the shadows to hear us – a fair assumption.

Following in, I raised a hand, my magelight –which had taken on an oddly pink hue – glittered, then brightened to white, chasing shadows out of the corners as I pushed the door closed behind us. No one hiding in the corners – the house itself is very small, and doesn't have many places to hide.

"Damn," Caro scowled, turning to leave the building. Clearly she had hoped to catch Jearl and possibly Jearl's accomplice here.

"Not so fast, these people are sneaky," I responded, dimming my light as I looked around the room.

"Lirah?"

"Yeah?" I asked, walking further into the room, my magelight finally flickering out.

"You, uh, you know." Caro announced.

Meaning I look very creepy, eerie, and or my eyes just shifted to a brighter shade of red. They do that, sometimes. "It's just dark-vision, don't worry about it," I answered blandly. "I'm on your side, you know," I added, not quite keeping the plaintive tone out of my voice.

Caro shook herself, visibly, though she continued to watch my eyes. I guess they look pretty intense. Which is odd, I don't even feel cranky yet. "Yeah…I know." she swallowed. "So, what are you looking for?"

"Sneakiness." I responded mildly, setting Frostreaver on Jearl's bed as I began to feel around beneath the furnishing. Nothing.

It just seems to me that every time I come across these people I'm either travelling, or in a hidden place, usually underground. It seems a bit of a habit with them, to want to hide like snakes, underground where it's safe. "I'm looking for a trapdoor, or a hidden passage," I announced to Caro.

"_Here_? In Bruma?" Caro asked, though she began to poke around for a hidden trapdoor, as well. Looking at it from the outside, it's painfully obvious the door would have to be in the floor.

"You know how the Blades planned to smuggle Emperor Uriel out of the Imperial City. _Is_ there anything more clichéd?" I asked idly. I'm almost sure this building is sitting on top of some sort of cavern – it smells musty in here, faint but musty – like something damp, and mushroom-filled, but only near the ground, which says to me 'trapdoor in the floor'. "Haha!" I announced, grabbing the rug near the bed and yanking it back.

Caro blinked. "You live a charmed life."

"When you grow up with brothers, you learn to find where they hide things. It helps if you plan to blackmail them at any point…" I responded. When you grow up in the guild, you learn what musty caves full of mushrooms smell like – it's quite distinctive, and not exactly pleasant.

"You don't blackmail your brothers, do you?" Caro gaped.

"No need to…" I tugged on the trapdoor, which refused to give. "Damn."

"Ha!" Caro found the lock and began to fiddle with it.

"And you say _I_ live a charmed life." I grunted when the lock clicked a few seconds later. "So tell me, does the Grey Fox really exist, or is that just rumor?"

Caro shrugged. "Dunno – never met the guy."

Smirking I retrieved Frostreaver. "I'll go first this time."

Caro shrugged as she pulled the door open.

Both of us remained silent now we knew where we would probably find cornered spies – though if you use an underground hideout, prudence says you have an alternate entrance-exit, in case people like Caro and I pay you a visit.

I dropped into the basement, which exploded into chaos.

Jearl and her Dunmer associate both gaped for a split-second as I got to my feet, glowering impressively at them, before the Dunmer – showing more sense than the Redguard – flipped the table at which she sat, launching a fireball at me as the furnishing fell, giving cover.

It very nearly hit Caro, nearly because I flung myself back into her, knocking us both to the floor.

The basement, little more than a furnished cavern, rang with shouts, as the Redguard – Jearl herself, if I recognized her voice properly – summoning both armor and weapon, while the Dunmer sprinted for the door at the far side of the cavern.

"Lirah!" Caro barked, pushing me out of her way as she slalomed her mace into Jearl's, blocking the other woman's attack. "Get her!"

"Got it!" I got to my feet, slipped past Jearl and Caro, flinging open the door into the caves though which the Dunmer disappeared.

I could see her running pell-mell ahead of me , with a fairly respectable head start.

Glancing back she half-turned, extending her palm at me, seeking to extend her lead. If she gets out of here I'm…shit!

The glowing light, cold and unlike a magelight, gave me seconds' notice of what I was about to face, enabling me to bring Frostreaver to the ready. You see lots of _these_ in abandoned dungeons too.

Her ancestral guardian groaned as it manifested out of the ball of light, shrieking when Frostreaver cut through it, the instant I had something semi-solid to attack. The frost damage from my sword did no harm to it – being a ghost – but like all Einar's weapons, Frostreaver could deal with ghosts. It cut into the ectoplasmic 'body' of the ghost, through which I could see the damn Dunmer pulling ahead.

Another vicious swipe with Frostreaver and the ghost howled before another finished it off. Before its ectoplasm could do more than being to drop from the air to pool on the ground I was sprinting down the cavernous passage, twisting and turning ahead of me.

Ghosts aren't Dremora – therefore they're not a problem. They're just inconvenient.

"Oi!" I hollered, desperate to break the Dunmer's concentration, to buy myself precious seconds in which to catch up. That's a drawback of being short –shorter legs means a shorter stride, which means you run twice as hard to simply keep up with everyone else. I hate being short…

However, the shout distracted the Dunmer for the merest second – meaning she expected her ghostly guardian to finish me off.

Now _that_ would be embarrassing.

In the moment she looked back over her shoulder, she dragged a foot, caught it on some of the loose rocky debris on the floor, and fell forward, landing with a thunk.

I packed on speed. Dropping Frostreaver some feet back I reached out and caught her by the back of the shirt as she regained her feet, pivoting on my heel and slamming her into the wall. She grunted, and then tried to throw me off, much as I threw Martin several days ago. However I've got the advantage, and simply slammed her into the wall again.

The Dunmer grunted as she hit, for a moment dazed, giving me opportunity to grab one of her arms and twist it up behind her. I slammed her into the wall a third time. "That's for making me chase you," I grunted, then yelped in pain as the Dunmer slammed her head back, right into the bridge of my nose.

"Ow!" I slammed her into the wall again – this time _very _hard, with a snarl of pain and anger, both of which surged and roiled behind my eyes. She yelped this time, and immediately began to cough and snort – apparently she'd hit her nose _just right_ the last time she'd hit the wall, and now it bled as freely as mine.

Forcing the Dunmer to the ground I sat in the small of her back, holding her arms both twisted up by her shoulders, unable to stem the flow of blood from my own nose, so I watched it drip-drip-drip making dark spatters on the pale fabric…

Where the hell is Caro? Caaaaro!

"Lirah?!" Caro's voice echoed.

"Guh!" I called, choking as blood tried to run down my throat, rather than out my nose. Oh that's so nasty….eeeew!

"Whoa – what happened to you?" Caro asked, cocking her head as she trotted up. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but other than looking a little winded, she seemed all right.

Glaring balefully at her, as she fished out a handkerchief, I saw blood on her mace. Jearl's probably very dead right now – Caro wouldn't have left her if she still lived. Caro managed to pin the still bleeding Dunmer, and I staunched the blood from my nose , feeling the sickening sensation of blood pooling in it. "Eew." I groaned with a shudder.

"You don't mean to tell me _she _did that?" Caro jerked her chin at my nose.

"It was a lucky shot," I grunted.

Caro smirked, and into that smirk I read: _the girl fights Dremora without a scratch and a Dunmer gives her a bloody nose_.

It's amassing how many people like to use that phrase 'without a scratch', especially as it's _so _inaccurate. People assume because they don't see damage, it's not there – or simply choose to overlook the damage. "I'm surprised you were in a mood to take prisoners." Caro noted, in a more serious vein.

"I was interested in not letting her get away," I grunted, then spat twice, to clear my mouth. Once my damn nose stops bleeding… "It doesn't look like she broke it…?" I trailed off. I've got red hair and red eyes – I don't need a broken nose to top it all off.

Caro snickered. "Nah – it's just little bloody nose, Lirah."

"Yeah, well, it's not _your_ nose."

Caro grinned. "What do you want to do with her?"

"Well, first impulse is to finish her off and leave her…but I suppose Burd might have a use for her." I grunted.

"It doesn't matter," the Dunmer slurred, having as much trouble with her bleeding nose and talking as I had had. "It's over…"

"Oh," I bluffed, "you mean your pair of agents up in the Temple? I don't think so." Shaking my head I prowled over, gingerly moving the handkerchief away from my nose to see if the bleeding had stopped, which it had. "We picked them up already – you and Jearl were the last." Beaming I saw vague recognition swimming in the Dunmer's eyes. "That's right. It's your bad luck, huh?"

Caro, not having seen the recognition, pulled a face behind the Dunmer, but didn't say anything. Suddenly, however, a plan blossomed like spring flowers in my head. An incredibly clever plan – or so I feel – which could make use of this Dunmer, could draw out our other hidden Mythic Dawn agent and, best of all, would not take the time I expected it would take to root out a spy, if we didn't have a name for him – or her.

"You're smiling." Caro began to smile as well, as the Dunmer began to turn ashen.

"I've got a plan. Stay here –you two can get acquainted." Smirking I retrieved Frostreaver, settling it against my shoulder. "I'll be back after I report to Burd."

"Plan?" Caro didn't disguise her incredulity very well.

"Oh yes," Beaming wolfishly, I winked at Caro. "It's a beautiful plan – just make sure _she_ doesn't go anywhere."

Caro didn't protest me wandering off on my own, nor did she ask about the plan. In fact, I doubt very much the Dunmer will even be _conscious _by the time I get back – which is what I'm hoping for.

--A--


	41. Chapter 41

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty-One

--A--

A cursory look around Jearl's basement gave me more to think about, between meeting Lars and meeting up with Burd, than I expected. The paper, which lay innocuous pinned by the upturned and somewhat smashed table, now rested folded up and tucked inside my bracer. The contents made me sick, and even now, I felt more and more as though I were walking on the edge of Mehrunes' Razor itself. The words of the message seemed burned into my eyelids, heightening my sense of cold dread.

_Jearl -_

_The Master was pleased to hear of your activities with regards to Bruma. _

_The Master has chosen you and Saveri for a most crucial mission, a sign of your advancement through the ranks of the Chosen. We have learned from other sources that the Septim heir has gone to ground at Cloud Ruler Temple, the lair of those accursed Blades. The Master has made its destruction the top priority of the Order, and Lord Dagon has committed whatever resources are required._

_Pending the report on the Septim's activities at Cloud Ruler Temple, and your joint assessments of Temple defenses and possible routes of escape, we plan to open a Great Gate in the open ground before Bruma as soon as possible._

_Remember: the first three Lesser Gates represent only the preliminary stages of Great Gate Deployment. Do not in any way compromise your cover in defense of these gates. New ones can be quickly and easily reopened. Once the Great Gate is opened, the fall of Bruma is assured. Cloud Ruler Temple cannot stand long after that, and the Septim will be caught like a rat in a trap._

_We would welcome any further details you and your fellows can offer concerning the red-haired agent. The one who rescued Martin from Kvatch, but again, we caution you...do not risk a confrontation. This individual is not to be trifled with._

_The Dawn is breaking,_

_Ruma Camoran_

Jearl's orders, I noticed, had a date at the corner, which meant Ruma had sent it along just a day or two before I arrived to break up the Shrine's gatherers and take the Mysterium Xarxes. That was probably what Mankar Camoran was doing there in the first place, laying out the plan for his lieutenants.

Entering the garrison, I was ensconced in Burd's office, left alone but for my thoughts. How long before this still at liberty agent makes a move? And my plan…

It's so simple, I wonder if it will work? Of course, if the agent has already moved, it doesn't matter, it won't mean anything…but if they haven't...

The door opened, allowing a very harassed-looking Captain Burd to enter. One look at the tiredness behind the irritation told me all I needed to know.

"I take it he's not talking?" I asked, standing up. I suppose I should expect as much – fanatics tend to be very thickheaded.

"Not a useful word," Burd grunted. "Don't worry, though…"

"We haven't time to worry," I shook my head. "Caro and I must return to headquarters as soon as possible…we have reason believe the cult these spies belong to plan to do here what they did at Kvatch."

Burd actually went pale, then began to turn steadily redder as he contemplated the scale of destruction there in relation to his own city. No, he didn't like that at all.

"So, since we are forewarned…" I let the sentence hang.

"I'll have the garrison gear up, and warn the Countess," Burd nodded gruffly, eyebrows still knitted together.

"Good. Caro and I, meanwhile, will do what we can to stop the invasion, and keep the Gates from opening. I assume you have a way of contacting us?" I hope so. I'll also argue with Martin about training some members of the garrison here to close Gates on their own soon, as one of those 'there's no other alternative' moments. Hell, I should take Caro and a handful of the others, and train _them_ as well. It'll make everybody happy, in the long run. It'll make a lot of us _grouchy_ in the short term.

Burd nodded. "But not once this storm finally breaks," he waved to the brewing mess outside.

"That's fine. If he cracks, great. If not…I suppose it doesn't matter, in the end. Just don't let him _go_ anywhere." Shaking my head I gave Burd a smirk. "I think the Mythic Dawn will be suitably and unpleasantly surprised, should they move against Bruma." If we pull this off, we'll officially be one step ahead of Mehrunes Dagon and his army of fanatics! I won't even contemplate that – lest I contemplate us into lagging behind again.

"You bet they will," Burd grunted irritably, his eyes drifting darkly to the door he'd come through, behind which, somewhere, interrogations probably are still under way. With a preoccupied nod, Burd swept out of his office, leaving me to exit at my own pace.

And now, for the hidden spy. I just hope this works. Fortunately, it doesn't hinge on Saveri, our captured Dunmer's, cooperation.

--A--

"Now, you're sure this'll work?" Caro grunted as she half-dragged, half-carried Saveri's limp form, hanging from one shoulder.

"No, but if you've got a better idea," I offered. The caverns adjacent to Jearl's basement let out in the lowlands near the path up to Cloud Ruler Temple – which explains why no one saw Jearl coming and going from these little reconnaissance missions of hers.

"So run it by me again." Caro frowned. I suppose I didn't explain it very well the first time though, considering I was filling in as many details and loophole sin the plan as I could so as to present something solid to Jauffre. "You want me to drag _her_," she gave Saveri a shrug, "all the way up to headquarters."

"Yes. _Do_ you want help with her?" I offered, not for the first time. It's a long walk, after all, and even if Saveri may not be as heavy as some loads, she's certainly cumbersome.

"Nah, I got her." Caro grunted as if on an aside before continuing as if she hadn't gone off on a tangent. "And drag her to Jauffre's office, so he can put her in interrogation."

"Yes." I love this plan, since it's the only one we've got. Otherwise we have to beat the information out of these spies, which doesn't necessarily yield reliable results.

"And make a big production of it, when we get there." Caro continued.

"Uh huh. Sounds like you've got it down to me." I smirked. Amazing, considering how incoherent the stream of chatter was for the first run through.

"So, what exactly is the _point_ of this?" Caro asked. "This is where you lose me."

"You ever read about how to conduct a siege?" I asked, chewing thoughtfully on a fingernail.

"No."

"Neither have I, but if I had an enemy, and I knew they were going to fall back to a highly defensible place like headquarters," I began, "I wouldn't want to try and wait them out. It could take years for all I knew. But, imagine I've got agents already in place…"

"And how did they get _in _in the first place?" Caro asked, though I don't doubt she could come up with an answer to this herself.

Still, I humored her, giving voice to one of the most likely answers to the question. "Easy – sneaked in when Jauffre recalled the other Blades from nonessential tasks," I shrugged. "Or even killed two, slipped on their armor and off they went, with the rest of the crowd. The Mythic Dawn's got a fantastic information network…"

Caro grit her teeth. "Damn." Which I take to mean 'I knew it' or 'I should have known'. I agree, I didn't think about checking to make sure everyone was really a member. Then again, I'm not the administrative type.

"It's so simple, no one thought to double-check." I announced needlessly. "Who expects to find traitors in a group like ours?"

"No shit," Caro snapped, venting her irritation at my comment about the obvious. I ignored the bite in her tone – I'd be a little upset too, I suppose, were I in her shoes. "So – rats in the trap, what do you do?" But her grim smirk indicated she guessed the answer to that too. Caro's a lot of things,and stupid isn't one of them. I think she just wants to talk, and discussing something frivolous simply isn't going to work. Not when things are so serious.

"Poison the cheese," I muttered, thinking a long the lines of the 'rats in traps' comments, both from Caro and in Jearl's orders. "Well, maybe not quite _cheese_…"

"Excuse me?" Caro paused walking for a moment.

"Well, mluo's gross enough not to need it…" I mused absently before continuing my true vein of thought. "Water. I'm expecting the agent to poison the water supply. We either die of thirst during the siege, or we're forced to do something…drastic."

Caro gaped. "That…makes sense, actually…so, we show off the spy we caught…"

"And if the other agent hasn't done anything yet, we might tip his hand." I finished.

"Yeah, but there's a problem with that. Wouldn't he just keep his head down and wait for a chance to get away?" Caro asked, frowning as she shifted Saveri's weight.

"If he were _smart_, yes – but he doesn't know if Saveri will crack under questioning. Nervous people make mistakes." Living proof, talking. "You know, we could sell _tickets_ to the Blades for a chance to question her. We could hold a raffle." I announced, half-serious, but more to keep conversation from dwindling. The sounds of boots crunching on the trail isn't a sound to soothe nerves.

"What would we do with the proceeds?" Caro asked, grim humor in her tone.

"Oh, I don't know…" Joking helps keep my, mind off the growing shadow. Looking up, I caught a glimpse of one of the moons through the cloud cover, like a low-hanging ceiling. "Maybe buy us some sunlight."

"That does look pretty bad…you think we'll get back before it hits?" Caro inquired.

"I expected it to hit _hours_ ago," I grunted. "Who knows – maybe our luck…" I stopped, a fat raindrop having just landed on my nose. "Oh crap."

"Come on, we need to walk faster. Give me a hand with _this_."

Slinging the unconscious Dunmer between us, we shared the burden and increased our pace. I hope we get back before the weather gets _serious_.

--A--

"What the hell?" Rols, on guard duty, demanded as Caro and I hauled Saveri in with us, amidst the pounding rain. I get the feeling this storm was just holding its breath, and this is just a little more before it starts to roar – to use the Nordic descriptions.

"Prisoner," I announced loudly, more to make sure my voice carried than to simply make myself heard about the wind whistling below us. "Rols, get her somewhere secure and stay with her – no one talks to her but Caro, Jauffre, or me, until one of us tell you otherwise."

"Ailirah you can't…" Rols blinked at the Dunmer.

"Never mind, we'll do it – come on, Lirah!" hefting Saveri into a fireman's carry as I grabbed Rols' arm.

"Come on – you'll have to watch her while Caro and I make our report!"

Can we be any less obvious here? After sequestering Saveri under Rols' watchful eye in one of the sublevels of the Temple, Caro and I hurried towards Jauffre's office, to find Martin in the Great Hall. "Come on, you'll want to be in on this," I announced quietly, breaking away from Caro's beeline.

Martin gave me a quizzical look, but said nothing as he got up – I noticed the Mysterium Xarxes was conspicuously absent, though all the notes spread over the table seemed to refer or correspond to it – allowing me to lead him by the elbow. "What's happened?" he asked quietly, his voice a little scratchy from apparent disuse.

"Trouble – We'll talk about it with Jauffre and Caro." I answered simply.

Martin quickened his pace so I had to trot to keep up. He didn't notice how much trouble I was having, and I didn't mention it. Haste is good – we want to move quickly here!

"Well?" Jauffre asked. I noticed another Blade standing by his shoulder whom I assumed was Captain Steffan, the one who originally gave Caro her orders. "Good to have you back again."

"Good to be back." Grinning I shut the door behind Martin and myself. Caro made to get up.

"Sit." Martin waved then gave me a look indicating I should sit as well. I settled against Jauffre's desk – we are running out of chairs here – so I could face the room at large. While this put Jauffre and Steffan out of my range of vision, it was the best I could do.

"Go ahead, Caro," I shrugged.

"Hey, it's your plan." Caro responded, settling into her chair, rubbing her shoulders. "Ugh."

"Plan?" Jauffre demanded.

"I ran into Caro in Bruma, and she let me tag along on her mission. What we learned isn't good." I summarized the situation, producing the note, which Caro hadn't noticed or seen previously, and watched everyone's faces growing darker.

The cluster of Blades had moved from standing in a vague ring around the office to huddling around Jauffre's desk. Jauffre looked pale, but resolute, Steffan simply angry and Martin…he's starting to show some strain, and I'll bet it all comes back to that damn book making a bad situation worse. His expression darkened to something that actually made me very uncomfortable, as I detailed the spies _inside_ the temple, and Caro's and my plan to use one to bait out the other.

"You brought her here? You know she can't ever…" Steffan began.

Looking at the desk, or rather my hands on the desk, I answered. "Leave? Of course she can't. We can't let her _live _either." Martin's fists tightened slightly, off to one side of my own. It sounds cold blooded, but this is not a time for warm fuzzy feelings, and massive moon sugar parties. The Khajiit of Elsweyr know how to throw a party – no, I didn't partake. "Meanwhile, I should go."

"What's your bait?" Jauffre asked, his voice level, but his expression forbidding.

"It's certainly not Martin – he can take care of himself. No, I'm off to go keep an eye on the well-room." I responded mildly.

"You're quite sure we've been infiltrated?" Martin asked grimly, though I could tell the fact I was neither proposing him as bait, not discounting his ability to freeze a man into a stunning statue of the finest ice mollified him a bit.

No one likes playing the bait – _I_ certainly don't.

Looking up I found his expression quite unlike what I'm used to seeing. So much so it was like seeing someone else's face. Is that how I look these days – like I'm wearing someone else's face? "I'm sure of it. We're just lucky we caught them." Lucky indeed. I wonder if luck will hold, and if so, for how long?

"You said there were two." His tone wasn't accusatory, but strained.

"Yes. Were." I responded, counting on him to pick up the implications.

Abruptly Martin turned and slammed the door open, then closed, his footsteps receding.

"Let him go," I reached out and touched Caro's elbow when she jittered on the spot.

"How can you worry more about the well…" Steffan began in tones if indignation.

"Come on! Think about it!" I snapped, irritated because I was unnerved. I've never seen Martin angry before – no one looks good when they're angry, it's not a person's best side. Still, at least it wasn't aimed at me. "He can blast them back to Oblivion without breaking a sweat," Not precisely true – and there I go with clichéd comments. "I'm more worried about the water supply. Give him some time – it's bad enough to get thrown into a mess like this, worse to find out you don't know who you can trust." I responded, wishing I knew something to help that didn't involve 'give him space'. Four brothers – guys want space to get things worked over, before they want a hug.

And yet, somehow, using the approach I would use for one of my brothers doesn't seem quite _right_.

Shouldering Frostreaver I nodded to Jauffre. "With your permission?" I grunted.

"Go ahead." Jauffre nodded, before leaning over to speak quietly to Steffan.

I didn't bother to stick around once I had permission – I have to trust Jauffre will fill in the gaps as we go. If dawn comes and nothing's happened, I'll see if there's a way to test the well for poison, then we pit someone we know we can trust to guard it - Caro or Rols, probably. Cyrus and Baurus won't divest themselves from Martin's retinue…

But I'm assuming I know who I can trust…no. _No_. That's probably part of the grand scheme – to let us rot with mistrust from the inside out –as effective as any poison, in the long run…like doubt.

I might be too late, however I'm banking our mole will take time to make sure it really is Saveri and not a dummy, ruse, or double before doing anything. However, he'll want to be careful – but then, I'm assuming the agent is a 'he', I could be wrong on that count, but it doesn't really matter.

I just hope I'm right, partway right even, this time. Absently I reached beneath the collar of my chainmail, freeing the little pendant Martin gave me, for luck. Rubbing my thumb in a circle around the stamped surface, I couldn't help thinking I'll take all the luck I can get. It's certainly helped with the nightmares.

--A--

--Author's Notes Appended--

Yes, this is not the note in its original context – I've altered it a bit, under the cover of creative license. Credit to the Elder Scrolls Wiki for making the contents of notes, journals, and other missives so accessible! /wiki/Oblivion:Jearl'sOrders


	42. Chapter 42

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty-Two

--A--

The darkness of the well room, deep in the bedrock and foundations of Cloud Ruler Temple, proved a welcome solace. The only sounds down this far were the settling noises of the Temple above (unnerving, but hardly frightening, as I'm not perturbed by underground spaces), the drip of water somewhere in the room (indicating to me the well might not be the only source of water for the Temple), and the soft fluttering which turned out to belong to a bat, (apparently trapped down here sometime past which subsisted on any spiders, moths or other bugs we humans let in).

The room itself was perhaps the size of the great hall topside, if we were to empty it out of the benches and tables. Rocky pillars held up the ceiling, and the well itself in the far left corner of the room, the iron cover still laid across it, to prevent anything accidentally falling in. I can't imagine what, except the occasional unlucky bug, the foundations down here look pretty solid to my untrained eye. And Cloud Ruler Temple hasn't collapsed yet.

Time moves slowly in the dark, so I picked the comfiest spot I could find in one of the corners, with a good view of the stairs leading up to the door. I don't know how long I was waiting before the door opened and closed. I could see the faint outline of a human shape moving around, too carefully to be here for any good reason. I waited in silence, as the figure looked about then lit a small magelight. Aha.

I let him get all the way down to the floor, within ten feet of the well before getting to my feet. His light wasn't strong enough to make me anything more than another shadow in the deep shadows. I couldn't help noticing the light was a shade of greyish-red. You know, that doesn't surprise me.

"Well, well, well," I announced with a calm chill in my tone as I lit my own magelight, watching the color drain from the man's face in the pale glow of our combined lights. "That _is_ what you're here for, isn't it?" I asked, eyeing him closely.

"I…I don't know what you're talking about. I was sent to relieve you." I recognized his voice – the very same voice that had made inquiry, the night before I left to find the Razor. The one I told – in effect – things would turn out all right.

"Don't lie – there's no point," I grunted, more displeased with the realization of who he was then that he was a spy. "Unless of course, you want to tell me all about your secret big plans…no?" I answered the rhetorical question, watching his expression tighten. I could almost see the thoughts reflected back at me – orders not to engage the red-haired agent. That I wasn't someone to be trifled with. And yet, he can hardly walk away. No, this ends one of two ways. Well, three, but I don't plan on letting him kill me. He's no Dremora. Getting killed by him would be an embarrassment.

I gave Frostreaver a sort of bored swing. "You can take the first swing, if you like." I taunted, hoping he'd confused my relaxed posture for inattention. Quite the opposite I _assure_ you.

"You've gone mad…" He bluffed. I could tell he was bluffing – Caro wouldn't have sent someone to relieve me. It would defeat the purpose of the trap.

"Maybe. You _could _surrender…but then you'll be questioned. They might even ask me to do it…" I smirked, inspired. "You know, every time I go into Oblivion…a little bit of it comes back with me? And right now…a beating, bloody heart sounds like just the thing for a midnight snack. Dremora do it all the time." Smirking with a sort of contrived innocence at odds with my words, I watched his composure crumbling. He shifted back one step, and I took one forward.

He shouted something, and I felt a tremor of magicka off to my left. Turning I managed to block the blow from a Dremora. _Craaaap!_ I thought we were done with Dremora for the week!

The creature's mace pressed hard against Frostreaver – dangerously close to my knuckles. He was ready when I flung his mace to one side, turning to pivot with the motion. My shout of discomfort chorused with a shout of dismay as the spy, seeking to use the summoned Dremora to keep me from giving chase, ran into an obstacle.

A hearty clang of metal on metal told me the door was blocked, whatever else might be going on. I could hear the bat fluttering around in the dark, distressed by the noise, probably terrified by the smell of the Dremora, leering at me as I staggered back from another blow.

Remembering previously broken ribs and how I got them, I tilted Frostreaver to catch the next blow, this time twisting the weapon opposite what the Dremora expected, sending his mace towards my hands. He drew back, anticipating the next move I meant to use – letting him bruise my knuckles in exchange for a chance to jab Frostreaver into his chest. I wonder if I've fought him before: Dremora don't 'die,' they get 'banished', and respawn from the waters of Oblivion. This one seems to know how I fight pretty well – or maybe to someone experienced it's obvious.

Doesn't matter.

I moved faster, forcing him to keep moving backwards, his mace swinging back behind him as he tried to lean out of the way of Frostreaver's point. You can't lean like _that_ with heavy armor on. The armor steals the body's natural flexibility. The tip of one blade skipped across his armor. Still, this is one smart Dremora…

He feinted left, only to find his way to more space in which to move blocked. While the noise of the battle continued, Caro appeared in time to force the Dremora to reassess his situation.

Well, if Caro's with me, then who…

I took a second to glance back towards the noise of the second fight. The spy was still on the stairs, but he was losing ground, staggering back, onto the floor with the rest of us, pushed back by…

_Jauffre_?

"Lirah!" Caro barked.

Her voice echoed sharply against the stone and I reacted without thinking. I shouted, ducking as I spun, clutching Frostreaver's grip so when I raked the off-end of the sword across the Dremora's chest, as I turned to face the same direction as the blow, it pushed deep into the metal of his armor, frost blossoming like blood, which spurted a moment later. With a grunt I jerked back, pulling the blade free.

The Dremora fell back against one of the stone pillars, his breastplate mangled from shoulder to breastbone by a deep gouge. With a roar he swung his mace in his off hand, slamming it effectively into Caro – but presenting his back to me. I lurched forward and felt the weapon slide smoothly through the back of his neck, right through the soft spot below his skull.

Damn – I couldn't have done that if I _tried_. I meant to get him in the torso. It's easier to get through Daedric plate by puncturing it, then by slashing at it. Of course, Daedric plate is some of the toughest armor available for warriors.

The mace dropped with a resonant clang, as the Dremora fell to his knees, then hit the ground face forward with a sonorous clank before his corporal form vanished, leaving bloodstains. He didn't gasp, or gurgle, but he bled profusely. Neck wounds like this – while usually done with a knife, are an assassin's favorite soft stop, or so I've heard – gush like severed limbs.

Nothing I haven't seen before – not even a Dremora's getting up after that.

Looking over I saw Jauffre, sweating, but his eyes burned, alight with fierce fire. His opponent continued putting up the sort of fight only a cornered animal can,. desperation and desire to survive fueling his attempts. From the look on Jauffre's face I doubt desperation and will to live are going to help this spy out of the corner he's backed himself into.

Caro, however, lay very still, where the Dremora's blow had cast her. Leaving Jauffre to manage for a moment I hurried over, rolling Caro onto her back. Her eyes opened and closed, though not as if she consciously did it, and blood gushed from her mouth. Her mangled armor made it nearly impossible for me to find out how hurt she was, but she seemed to be breathing…or trying to. We can't let her stay down her much longer – she needs to see a healer. Fast.

My conscience wrenched as I knelt beside Caro, elevating her shoulders slightly, the best aid I could administer as I fumbled in my gear for a potion – something to help repair the damage…come on, come on, I always carry _one_…

It wasn't there. Cold fear gripped my stomach in one hand and my heart in the other. Looking up I meant to shout to Jauffre to hurry up and finish that creep, before common sense caught up with me, telling me to simply put Caro down and go _help_.

Halfway to shouting something unintelligible I stopped, simply gaping.

I will never think of Jauffre as the old guy in charge ever again. Apparently our spy made that mistake, because if he was scared to see me, he was truly close to panicking now, as he struggled to fend of someone with at least thirty years more experience. Despite Jauffre's age, there's still strength in his arms, and determination.

Right now, both were bent on killing the enemy.

The Yokudan have a term for people like Jauffre: _ra gada _– and why it strikes me when I need to have my mind elsewhere, I don't even know. The word translates to 'warrior', but in Yokudan it means so much more. It's not a term you can apply to anyone who picks up a sword and fights with it, or who makes war their business. _Ra gada_ is as much a disposition as a description.

Imagine the very best, most honorable, most noble knights who ever walked the worlds: those are _ra gada_. Every champion who ever carried the torch in times of darkness, and maintained his or her integrity, even when it hurt.

And people like Jauffre, a wise, venerable leader – but still strong. Still resolute…still able to kill the enemy when necessity calls. All this realization took only a split second.

Jauffre gave a focusing shout as he stepped forward with the grace and strength of a much younger man, his katana glinting in the mage light – it's mine, the only one still shining. For a moment everything moved slowly, as if time itself slowed. I barely felt Caro's shoulder in my grip as the head of our spy flew off like a melon form its post at a summer fair. Giving his sword a shake he trotted over, sheathing it, to kneel across from me, wholly unconcerned with the body spraying blood all over the well room's floor, or the head gaping in shock.

"She's not breathing well," I announced needlessly, leaving Frostreaver propped against the wall. "The Dremora hit her pretty hard, and those maces aren't…they're nasty," I ended lamely. "I can't tell if her lungs are damaged…" I trailed off, looking to Jauffre. I've never been good with patching other people up, past slapping gauze and bandages on the injury, maybe a healing potion.

"I imagine so, help me with her, carefully," Jauffre responded calmly, though the burning determination remained etched in his face. If he found my moment of 'at a loss' troubling or troublesome, he didn't show it.

I was content to follow someone else's direction, provided that someone knew what to do. And as Jauffre gives that impression, I'm not going to ask dumb questions.

Moving Caro took a lot of effort – mostly because we had to negotiate the stairs. Once we got topside, however, we found help in the form of Blades, up late with nerves. The fact Caro and I brought someone back, coupled with the fact Saveri was safely sequestered, and the racket that might have come up from the well room had them all acting like nervous cats.

So getting Caro to the infirmary wasn't difficult. I actually got kicked out, for being of no assistance. I'm a gauze and bandages person, I can't heal someone with magicka. Therefore, no one needed me – which left me with nothing to do and a whole lot of time in which to do it. An uncomfortable situation to find oneself in, particularly when nerves are frazzled.

The storm outside roared angry in the darkness, to the point I decided to hunt down a box and _make_ myself something to do.

I actually managed to borrow one from Roliand – little more than a box with a sliding panel which smelled mildly of rodent – like a ferret or a weasel, I suspect. Call me over-sympathetic, but I didn't like the idea of leaving the bat in the well room with only a dead body for company. After all, the food supply is going to dry up sooner or later. While it would be cruel to release him in the storm, I can release him the night after it clears – and hope he stays clear of human habitation.

It's something to _do_, at any rate. I need something to do, and I'm not willing to go see if Martin's up for talking yet. It won't help anyone if we _both_ wind up snapping at each other.

It took me almost an hour to finally catch the little nuisance in my cloak, then dump him in the box. It took longer to find a few oversized spiders – while I dislike spiders, I'm not squeamish about them, and bats _love_ them. You don't get to play squeamish when you dungeon dive – bats and spiders are almost required for all the good dungeons.

Bat, box and spiders stowed safely under my bunk, along with Frostreaver, I flopped back on my bed. I'm out of things to do again…I hate feeling edgy, with nothing to do. This isn't even Oblivion-tempered edginess…or maybe it is. Hell, it all feels the same – I'm growing downright twitchy.

Getting up, I wandered back to the infirmary to check and see if Caro was all right. The chief healer –another Blade I didn't recognize, and I forced myself to squish the 'how do I know you're really one of us' sentiments down firmly – rebuffed my inquiry by telling me Caro was _sleeping_, and not to be disturbed.

Tyrant.

I also choose to interpret this as 'come back in the morning'. I can be really annoying when I want to be – and I want to see of myself that Caro is okay. Obviously she's not dead, but all the same, I'd like to see for myself.

Within half an hour of my stomping away from the infirmary, the Temple finally started to calm down, after the night's events. Jauffre remained conspicuously absent, leading me to believe he wants a couple words with Saveri, himself.

I like thinking of him as a venerable _ra gada_ – I don't want to see his interrogation methods. I'm not much of an interrogator, myself. I don't enjoy causing pain, and honestly, watching someone else endure it, knowing they'll die in the end…it makes me feel a little ill. I know it's necessary sometimes…I'd just rather not witness it.

Does that make me gutless?

Jules has done it, once. Back when he was climbing through the ranks of the Guild. I remember him telling me 'use it only as a last resort, Lirah – and never, if you can avoid it', before going off. It was the longest bath he ever took. I suspect he was rather ashamed of it. He never mentioned it again, at any rate.

Hmm – thinking of brothers, and I still feel fairly even tempered. Looks like Oblivion's pretty well worn off – as far as it's going to, anyway. Good – I like feeling _human_.

All right – temper is cool, I'm out of things to do. Let's go see how Martin's holding up. He's probably more shaken by the spies than the rest of us.

I shouldn't mention Caro's injury to him – it'll just make things worse.

--A--


	43. Chapter 43

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty-Three

--A--

I wandered towards the small chapel, to find Baurus and Cyrus both standing on either side of the door. I could hear Martin on the inside – it sounded like a very intense debate, though he wasn't shouting. I suspect that part came earlier. Baurus and Cyrus both had the expression of an experienced Blade purposefully not hearing whatever was happening. In one ear, out the other.

My philosophy on this is, 'in one ear out the other' is just what they tell you. No one's that good at tuning someone's frustrated monologue out. I might pretend I wasn't listening, but I'd hear every word. The harder you try not to hear things, the louder they seem to sound. And then there are the times where you _don't_ pay attention and honestly don't hear a thing.

As far as the monologue going on within the chapel – and Martin still sounds very worked up - it goes back to the age-old question: who do you yell at when there's no one to yell at? And with him having served as a priest…which raised a question. Is he _still_ a priest, or is he a layman pending coronation? I mean, officially, probably, but I can't see a priest able to fulfill the role of Emperor very well. There's a reason rulers _abdicate_ to join the clergy…

Not that it's any of my business to begin with. Damn. I should just stop thinking.

Squaring my shoulders I walked up to where Baurus and Cyrus stood. "Hey," Cyrus nodded.

"Has he been at it since he got in there?" I asked, eying the closed door with some trepidation.

"Yeah – he's a little upset," Baurus responded stiffly, his tone indicating he was not about to share details with me.

Fine – I'm not asking for details. "Right – but he's stopped shouting?" I pressed. If he's not stopped shouting for a reasonable amount of time, I'll come back later.

"Another brother coping strategy?" Baurus asked wearily. "I take it the…ah…source of all the excitement's been dealt with?"

"Very permanently. But don't listen to me – Jauffre'll tell you when the threat's passed," I answered. "Best we keep our guards up, just in case."

"We only get one shot at this," Cyrus grunted.

"Yeah. And no," I responded to Baurus' initial questions. "My brothers are more the 'slam around the furniture' type of upset, then the 'vent when they can't hold it in any more' types. Can I go in?"

Baurus exchanged a look with Cyrus. "Look, if he wants to talk to you, he'll do it when he's ready."

Giving Baurus a stern frown I looked over at Cyrus. "If you've got a small private army looking to you for strength, answers and guidance, and you have a moment of acting like an average human, would _you_ ever want to come out of there? Particularly when members of said private army are getting hurt, for you, and telling you 'it's just my job, don't worry about it'? Honestly," I prompted.

"Four brothers," Cyrus sighed. "You know, he might just rip your head off."

I repressed the urge to say 'he'd never do that' because honestly, it's a good possibility – more out of convenience, though, than anything else. "I consider myself warned."

Baurus moved aside, nodding once. "Lirah…"

"Hmm?" Stopping, I looked up at him.

"You don't think you're…you know. Crowding, a little bit?" he asked nervously.

Scowling I eye him narrowly. You know, I gave him a lot of space before so I wouldn't crowd, and the problem wound up chewing on him, and I wound up in tears, worried out of my mind. Let's_ not _reverse the situation. "Has anyone told Martin it's all right to be frustrated?" I asked, perhaps a little coldly. It's the idealist in me, I suppose: an incurable desire to _help_. I deliberately didn't use the word 'worried', which might just be closer to the truth. "Or that it's okay not to have all the answers? That we, or some of us, accept he's _only human_? And that damn book isn't helping matters," I added, a twinge of annoyance flickering briefly.

I'm sorry, it's not that I belittle Martin's magical ability, I simply don't believe any human can ward him or herself _perfectly _against the Mysterium Xarxes – once bitten, twice shy. And Martin has enough on his plate right now, without weird surges of temper.

I've been where he is – frustrated, scared, confronted by a rising tide of things going the wrong way. He backed me up when I needed him to, it's the least I can do for him. Again, enter the idealism. Don't knock it – it's worked so far.

Right...?

Baurus shrugged, as if to say 'it's your life'.

Thank you.

Sliding the door open quietly I let myself into the darkened chapel, closing the door just as quietly. Martin didn't even hear me come in.

"...so what now?" he demanded, leaning heavily on the stone table. "You expect me to step up to this…this _life_," obviously the life of the heir apparent, "to be these people's leader, their guidance, and yet you refuse to _give_ guidance?"

Leaning back on the door, I bit my lip. The bitterness, frustration, worry and something akin to brewing helplessness her didn't want to succumb to could choke a person. Well, I'm already here, so I won't just slip back out, on the other hand, I'm not really a person to ask about the gods and their plans. I just do the best I can with whatever information I've got. I'm not a deep person when it comes to this stuff…must be doubly bad for him – once a priest, now not sure of _anything_. That's got to hurt.

"Years of atonement, of penitence, and it's apparently meaningless…" the bitterness in his tone made me flinch as it squished out the would-be hopelessness.

I opened my mouth, then closed it, then simply cleared my throat, to let him know he was no longer alone. No one likes feeling hopeless, no one liked feeling helpless. And no one would like standing in Martin's boots right now. Even I wouldn't want to unless I had to. Me? I can go back to busting heads and dredging up treasure for collectors once this is over – or maybe I'll stay with the Blades.

Martin? He's got to become on someone else, someone he never trained to be, someone he maybe never wanted to be, but that everyone else _needs _for him to become. You know, I really might stick with the Blades. I can't imagine facing a complete recast of who I am, never mind having to go through it alone. No one should have to do that. Call me sympathetic.

Martin, meanwhile, whipped around, his posture relaxing a bit when he saw me leaning nervously against the door. "I suppose this means the matter of the spy is dealt with?" His words sounded oddly rigid, stiff and formal, and a sort of intensity seemed to shiver around him.

"It's over." While I meant 'the issue with the spies in Cloud Ruler Temple is over', I realized immediately I chose the wrong words. Way to go.

"No it's not." Martin responded coldly, turning his back to me. Consequently, he didn't see me wince at my own graceless words. "Not hardly."

The bite in his tone – which I know isn't rally directed at me – still stings.

"Who got hurt this time?" Martin demanded after the silence settled, thick as pea soup.

"Just the usual bumps and bruises." I responded, avoiding the actual question. If I tell him about Caro _now_, he's just going to spiral further downwards. Time to practice the old standby of 'truth by perspective'. I don't know what I'll do when he finally catches onto this line of thought. I'm sure she'll be fine – Caro's tough...

"Bumps and bruises usually means serious damage, when you say it." Martin answered in a would-be calm tone which didn't cool me at all. It's an attempt not to take my head off out of convenience, or by accident. I appreciate it – no sarcasm intended.

"It's part of the job, Martin." Oh craap! I can't believe I said that - true or not.

Didn't I _just_ say that was one of the things _bothering_ him? The whole 'it's our job' thing…crap! Why don't I pay more attention when I talk? More attention when I _think_? This is _not_ like giving Roge or Markos a good kick and telling them 'get out there and _do_!'

"The job," he scoffed, turning around, his expression bitter, very frustrated, worried, doubtful – probably the plan B of setting spies into Cloud Ruler Temple. To shake us up. Well, it worked, dammit. "What kind of job is _that_?"Martin demanded.

Pushing myself off the door, I strode forward, stopping some five feet back. "Well, I signed on because a friend of mine asked me to. Anything else I volunteer for." Low blow, I know.

"Is that why you're here? To tell me it's all right?" Martin growled.

"Maybe not in those exact words," I allowed. I could see the sharp comment about his asking me – in effect – to stick around had a similar effect to a slap. "But you know..."

"Don't waste your breath." Martin sighed heavily, turning back to face the fore of the chapel.

Most people might take this as a dismissal, but then, I'm incredibly stubborn. "All right then," I answered, watching for clues as to how to proceed. The silence lay heavy on the chapel. "How's work on the Mysterium Xarxes coming?"

He has to know I wouldn't bring it up for no reason at all – and I saw his posture tense again. "It's…coming along." he answered stiffly, then when the silence filled again he turned around. "If you're asking me if I have a _plan_, an idea of where to go from here…" he trailed off, and when I didn't say anything, just continued looking at him he finally exploded, finally having a real person to vent at, someone who could shout back, or would otherwise respond. It's amazing what people read into silence and an attentive glance.

Especially when they're dying to shout at _someone_ they can see. I know I've been under stress and all I wanted then was to yell at someone, mostly out of convenience. I assume this principle is universal. It also sounds like he's at the point in his decoding of the Mysterium Xarxes where he's _this close_ to some elusive answer – which is part of his frustration. Or at least, that's what I perceive.

"Don't look at me like that! I don't have any answers for you! _They _don't have any answers!" Martin shouted, gesturing back towards the fore of the chapel, indicating the Nine. "They're not even _listening_! The Daedra are trying to rip this world apart, and there's nothing! Silence!" Turning around again he leaned on the table, hands clasped as if in prayer, then quickly aborted the gesture, all to aware of the semblance. Taking a deep breath, and letting it out very quickly, Martin managed to force a measure of calm into his tone. "Perhaps your brothers have the right of things."

Oh don't you start, don't you _dare _start, or I'm going to lose all sympathy and pound you into a bloody mush. Mastering the impulse and the roiling annoyance - the very idea of Martin suggesting I go back to Leyawiin, the Guild and my suffocating brothers is about as welcome as rust on my armor – I moved foreword quietly. For a moment I hesitated, then reached up to touch his shoulder.

I honestly half expected him to shrug me off, out of temper if nothing else. The muscles tensed, then loosen slightly beneath my hand as he sighed. "Ailirah..." again with the forced calm. I slid my hand a little higher, both so he could feel the warmth of my hand move and so I could squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. When you get to that dark place, the place I suspect he is, sometimes you need to know you're not the last living being out there.

"No, listen," I interrupted firmly, as though correcting some misunderstanding about the nature of something in my realm of expertise. Like telling someone the difference between a haft and a hilt. "I don't know what plans the gods have, or if they're just playing this by ear. Look at me….please?" People always respond better if you say please, and I managed to soften my tone a bit.

Martin sighed again, and turned to face me. I let my hand drop back to my side, looking up at him with the most benign expression I could muster. "Look, I'm a dungeon diver, a fighter," I held up a hand when it looked like Martin was going to demand that, wherever this was going, I get a move on with it. "And the only thing I ever figured out about gods and their plans – aside from the fact I believe they're out there somewhere - is that all _we_ can do is pray, then do what we can towards making those prayers come true. It's a proactive…"

"Are you watching the same scenario, Ailirah?" Martin interrupted. "Or does this come through idealist-clouded spectacles?"

I flinched at the sharp words, the fact he actually looked me in the eye when he delivered them, and resisted the urge to tell him what to do with himself. Believe me – I can get really creative. "Tell me what _you_ see then – we'll compare notes." I couldn't quite keep the testy edge out of my tone or the scowl off my face.

For a moment I thought he was going to tell me to get good and lost, then he gave a bitter laugh. "All right. The scenario as it stands."

As _you_ see it – there's a difference.

"The Daedra are breaking through, the Elder Council is scrambling to keep a crumbling empire afloat –an empire whose sole hope is one bastard prince and an idealist!" He gestured at me, as though the word 'idealist' were an insult. In some circles it is, but he left out the word that would make it truly insulting – 'idiot'. Idiot idealist. "What part of this looks _salvageable_ to you?" I'm not entirely sure if this is really an annoyed question, or a cry for something to hope in.

I want to believe the latter.

"There's still the Blades," I offered, though more to add perspective than because I agreed with this.

"The Blades…you still don't _get it_, do you?"

"Then explain it!" I barked back so abruptly Martin actually jumped a little, startled by the bite in my tone. "You keep telling me I don't get it, and I don't understand – then _tell me what I've missed_!" Between the Daedra and the fact the Blades just had a very close call, I mean.

"You don't See the way I do," I can tell he meant it with a capital letter, so I won't protest. But as he spoke, I saw and heard less anger and more…a sort of anguished uncertainty, and deep doubt. "You're a creature of Fate, Gatewalker! Touched by Destiny!" He almost spat the words out as he advanced on me.

I almost backed up, but instead swallowed hard as I held my ground. The little white lights that sometimes glimmer at the edge of my vision began to do so _now_, so I squinted until they disappeared. Martin was less than a pace away.

"Of all the people in this building, you're the one whose actions affect us the most – it's the lot cast for you. I can see Fate looming over you, like a dark shadow, poised to pounce and swallow you whole. Trouble gravitates towards you, and that's not going to change, it will get _worse_." He made as if to grab my arm, to accentuate his point, but checked himself.

Good thinking on his part. If you need a hug, fine, we all have bad days. But don't just grab me. I don't like it.

"But you haven't seen my death." It was not a question – we wouldn't be having this talk if it was certain. Looking up at him, I had little trouble meeting his intense gaze, to which he shook his head slowly, in a 'not yet anyway' sort of way. "Everyone is afraid the dark," I answered calmly, swallowing again. I can feel emotion radiating off him, and it's not a comfortable experience. "Everyone. But more than that we fear the _unknown_ that comes with the darkness. We even _imagine _things into the shadows. To the point we overlook the very simple solution."

"Simple solution?" He parroted back at me. "Which is?"

I raised a hand. "You turn on the lights." My magelight blossomed.

"Damn it Ailirah! This is not the time to play philosopher!" Martin snapped, turning on his heel and storming back up the aisle.

I glowered, feeling irritation radiate off me. "Play philosopher? Who was it who encouraged me to try it in the first place?" I asked.

"A fool," Martin grunted.

I strode up, and took up a stance opposite him. "Just go, Ailirah." He grunted, glowering at his hands, lips pursed.

"You're not the emperor yet, and _Jauffre_ is my superior," I answered. This is true – I honestly don't see Martin as part of my chain of command. Yet. "I don't think you're really mad at me." He looked up as though to unthinkingly correct this, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. "In fact, I don't think you're angry at all – it's just easier to pretend you are. You're _scared_. Hell - you should be." The words hit home.

Martin looked away, and I leaned forward on the table.

"You'd be a fool if you _weren't_. I'm scared. Everyone's scared…and yes, they look to you to lead. That doesn't mean we expect you to be more than human. It's just a comfortable notion to slip into."

Martin made as if to say something, then shook his head, apparently unable to find the proper words.

Well, at least we've got to the root of the problem. Now I can afford to show sympathy without fear of it getting slammed back in my face. "Do you think I don't see the same sorts of things looming around _you_? _Everybody_ sees it, but no one's sure how to _help_."

"But you're willing to try?" This time there was no anger, simply bitterness.

Sighing, I pushed my bangs out of my face, letting my head rest in my hands for a moment. "Yes. Even if all I can do is let you shout at me until you feel better." I answered, leaning on my elbows again. In the short silence that followed Martin reached out one hand, until his fingers brushed mine. Almost as if he thought I might pull away. I didn't react, either to encourage this, or to push him away.

"I don't know if it helps," I began, looking up. I found him still not looking at me, "forgetting any divine plans that may or may not be running right now, I have faith in _you_." This caught this attention he looked up, his expression pained, troubled. He understands when I say 'I have faith in you' it's a word for an unconditional sort of trust, which is a great thing for one human to give another. "I have faith in you to do what you can, as best you can. No more than that." I reached up to dispel my magelight. "I promise."

"You promise?" Martin mused softly.

"I know you think I'm an idiot-idealist." In my mind that's the worst sort of idealist – the kind who think they can save everyone, fix everything – you know the type, I'm sure. I see myself as a practical idealist – save as many as I can, help who I can…but don't expect to be able to do either every single time I try.

Like the Argonian.

"I didn't say that." Martin grunted.

"No," I sighed, "but you were thinking it."

Martin looked up. "No." For a moment he groped for words. "For a few moments, yes…but not on the whole. It's a trait one should generally admire." There was a note of embarrassment in his tone, which suggested like most people when they're emotionally wound up, he had said things he didn't _usually_ think.

"It makes us annoying, though." I offered. I know it's true.

"It's hard act to follow," Martin responded.

Harder to live, believe me. Still, at least we're not shouting anymore. "You should also know… this is exactly what Mehrunes Dagon wants – to shatter our confidence…and yours. I can't rebuild it. All I can do is tell you I still trust you, and your judgment…and then simply prove it, however I can." That's the thing – I can say it till I'm blue in the face. The proof is in letting my actions backup the words.

"You're probably right," Martin grunted. Then he looked up, tired, careworn, but at the same time somewhat fortified. It was that 'somewhat fortified' that made me feel less like I was fumbling around in the dark.

Giving him a very hesitant smile I edged my hand over until it overlapped his slightly. "We'll be okay," I whispered, as reassuringly as I could. We're not dead yet – so there's still a chance. It might be slim, but it's _there_. And I intend to make the most of it.

"Perhaps," he allowed. "So," he asked, his voice holding a transparent attempt to change the mood, "what does the Fighters' Guild teach you do in this situation?" I could tell this was one of those moments when he wanted to turn the conversation to something a little less uncomfortable.

These sorts of things don't go away just because someone helps you work through the knots – they'll tangle again. Still…this is progress, right?

Yes – I'm falling back on Julius' behavior and habits as a reference – though I'm ready to admit four brothers isn't helping me as much as I thought. Dealing with Martin isn't like dealing with my brothers.

I considered for a moment, looking up at the ceiling as I thought. "I don't know about the rest of the guild…" Though the thick walls I could barely hear the storm, then I smiled. We could do that…a smile crept across my face. There _is _that! "But I can show you what _I_ do."

I knew from the look flickering across his face he read more into my words than I intended to put there, though he covered this quickly. Sometimes I wonder what he _did_ before he was a priest – sometimes I think he's got a vein of naughty thoughts too deeply ingrained for a right and proper priest. "What's that?" He asked neutrally.

Stepping around the table I grinned at him, my usual lopsided grin of 'I'm about to do something you might call weird'. "Come on." I twitched my fingers at him, then tugged at his sleeve when he simply stood there, the familiar half-disbelieving smile on his face. When he didn't move fast enough I fell back on my usual way of getting people to move when I wanted them to: I grabbed his wrist and _pulled_.

You know, I get away with _so much crap_ around here! I just now realize it.

"Whoa!" Martin flailed with his free arm, momentarily off balance as I dragged him up the aisle, out of the chapel.

Shouting at Baurus and Cyrus to stay _put_, I dragged Martin out of the chapel, through a side exit, out of the Temple, and into the storm outside, ignoring the sleet rapidly soaking into my clothes and hair, the horrible biting cold that would – I'm sure – render me blue in minutes.

"Come on!" I barked over the noise of the wind whipping about.

"You're crazy!" Martin shouted back – but curiosity as to what I was up to won out. It's probably easier to wonder what I'm up to than to angst in the middle of a storm. "At first I thought it was a passing thing, but you're _really_ crazy!"

"So they tell me!" I let go of his wrist and took off at a run, hearing a whisper on the wind which meant he had shouted for me –or called me an idiot – for tearing off like this.

I reached the battlements and with a hop, I leaped onto the lower portion, bracing myself with hands and feet in the face of the wind, the cold, rough stone, uncomfortable against my hands. Looking over my shoulder, Martin had cast a magelight, and was standing braced against the wind, looking up at me, his clothes whipping, soggy about him, his hair flapping in his eyes. "Climb on up!" I shouted, freeing my hands long enough to pull my hair loose, so it whipped about my face, over my shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Martin shouted, shielding his eyes against the weather.

"Looking for my Thu'um!" Thoroughly Thu'um-less half-Nord here, but I haven't given up hope. And it's as good an excuse as any to act like a maniac.

Turning I braced myself again, arching my spine, and then I yelled, a shout bubbling up from my very toes, which jumped into the open arms of the wind and blasted back past my ears, whipping about like a ragged flag before twisting to follow the path of the gale. I broke off for breath and gave an exhilarated laugh, letting the sleet bite into my face. Turning again, I found Martin still looking at me, though not as if he thought me completely mad (only partially, I'd guess) – as though he finally knew where the 'storm' in my magical signature came from.

"Try." He wouldn't be able to hear the word, but he evidently read what my lips said.

He shook his head.

"Why not?" I called.

Hopping down from my perch – I saw him wince, as if he expected the wind to pick me up and throw me around. Even if it did, it would throw me back into the courtyard. I'm not dumb enough to perch facing away from the wind, nor to see if I can fly…but when the wind tugs at you like that, it is vaguely tempting. "Why not?"

Martin didn't articulate. I reached out and gripped his cold hand. "Just try! You'll feel better! Here – you can even stand with me!" With that I turned, pulling him towards the spot between the battlements. He stopped at the ledge, where he'd have to step up, and for moment I thought he was going to pull away, to let me have my moment of bizarre amusement by myself.

Good thing Cyrus and Baurus aren't here – they'd die of heart attacks at my cavalier encouragement for Martin to stand on the battlements and shout like an idiot. But it _does_ help. Shout at anyone. Shout at no one. Shout challenge. Defiance. Misery. Whatever. Shout yourself hoarse.

The wind just keeps roaring back at you. It _really_ clears your head.

After another moment's hesitation, he shook my hand free of his, so he could climb up without using me for leverage. I braced myself again, then backed up until I bumped into him. "Just shout it out!" I called with a cackle. I love facing the elements. There's something…_primal_ about it. Taking a deep breath it let out another hearty shout, and a moment later, I heard Martin follow my lead.

Wow…he's got good set of lungs. A _really _good set of lungs.

He finally had to gasp for breathe, at which point I felt one hand shift to cover mine, pressing my palm and fingers into the stone, an on verbal indication that maybe, _just maybe_ there was something to the crazy idea of shouting into the wind, a sentiment solidified when he gave another yowl, which mingled with a barking laugh from me.

To Oblivion with decorum. Sometimes you just need to yell.

--A--

Throat and face both feeling raw, I let Martin haul me back into the Temple after a few more minutes, much the same fashion as I'd hauled him out of it. I was soaked to my skin, and had – according to him – begun turning blue. The instant we were inside, however, I simply felt too hot to be allowed, as if I would melt suddenly. Hot, it's too hot!

"You're soaked," Martin announced, flopping my wet bangs out of my face, and then looking as though he half-wished he hadn't.

I don't mind. Grinning at him, I managed to chatter, "You too."

"You're crazy." Cyrus announced dryly, apparently having guessed we'd come back into the great hall, handing Martin a towel.

Reaching up I ran a hand through my hair, pulling a good deal of sleet out of it as I did so, and shaking it into the entryway. "Runs in my family."

"What were you _doing_?" Baurus demanded, striding up. It's a mark of trust that Baurus let me drag Martin outside without following. I truly appreciate it.

Martin actually gave me a very boyish grin – a look I've previously _never_ seen on his face, which made my fingers feel a little weak - before he shrugged innocently at Baurus. "Looking for our Thu'um." He shrugged.

I managed to restrain my laugh at this answer until Baurus grumbled 'Thu'um' before flopping a towel over my head, blocking out the world. Pulling it back I grinned at Martin who glanced back at the closed door. "Not so bad, is it?" I asked quietly.

Martin didn't answer me, but as he walked past me, he reached out and gave my shoulder a squeeze, which I interpreted to mean 'thank you' – though perhaps it had more to do with my intentions than dragging him outside to shout at a storm.

--A--

Author's Notes Appended:

It was brought to my attention I assumed a bit much. For those of you wondering 'what the heck is this Thu'um stuff?', it's a type of nordic magicka. The word 'thu'um' means 'shout', and the method of casting is reliant on the voice. (See: Oblivion Wiki. Search for thu'uma nd your'e rerouted to 'Way of the Voice'.)


	44. Chapter 44

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty Four

--A--

"Muh," I identified myself. It's a three letter word that means 'good morning, my eyes aren't open and my brain isn't working yet, so please talk slow'.

"Good morning sunshine," Martin announced from his worktable when I dragged myself into the great hall catch the tail end of breakfast, plunking down with my porridge. I immediately shoved it aside and flopped forward on the table, ignoring the unpleasant buzz coming from the Mysterium Xarxes, propped open on a stack of books.

"Ugh." I announced, enunciating clearly.

Martin's sigh was probably a laugh, but seeing as how I haven't pried my eyes open yet…it was so nice to sit here with my head buried in my arms and drift off to slee…

Damn that buzzing.

"I'm almost done with it," Martin announced, accurately reading my monosyllabic answers.

"Guh." I grunted.

This time I was sure he was amused at my weariness. Decided progress since last night – shouting does wonders but sleep works miracles. Although, I can't see how he's so chipper, for having been Gloom and Doom last night, only getting a few hours sleep (probably less than I did) and here he is in full swing of studying already. Looking up balefully I found him eyeing the Mysterium Xarxes. Straightening up, bleary eyes let me see a faint aura of color – blue – where his fingers touched the pages of the book. Magical shielding. Martin frowned, murmured 'all bad things in threes…so where's number three?'

"Wha'cha got?" I slurred.

"You're really not a morning person are you?" Martin inquired distractedly.

"Bleah." I announced, pulling my breakfast over, and stirring it. I can do mornings, I just can't do four or five hours of sleep after a long day. But it is time to be up. My stomach rumbled, yet I found myself unable to contemplate putting food into my mouth, much less trying to swallow it while the Mysterium Xarxes brooded. "How come it doesn't bother you that I'm sitting here, and _that's_ there?" I asked. "Isn't it bad for me?"

"You're not touching it – it might make you feel a little queasy, though." He eyed my untouched breakfast. His foot found my ankle, seeing as his hands were occupied, one writing notes, the other holding his place in the Mysterium Xarxes –which I don't understand it's only got two pages. "It can't hurt you, Ailirah." His tone indicated had more of his attention than previous comment suggested.

Nodding I made myself look up at him – he pulled his attention away from the book long enough to reassure me. "Once bitten," I answered. "You be careful with that thing," I added unnecessarily.

Martin nodded, his face the picture of dutiful acceptance.

He's teasing me. It's too early – I haven't even finished breakfast yet… "Ugh…_morning people_." I let my head fall back onto my arms.

"Done," Martin announced a moment later, the malevolent buzz of the Mysterium Xarxes vanishing.

"Where's it go when it's not with you?" I asked.

"Somewhere very safe." I didn't pursue the matter. It's probably a mage's trick, the explanation of which will be lost on me. "Didn't you sleep well?"Martin asked after a moment.

"Oh yeah, like a rock. Just not long enough…" I yawned, as I pulled my breakfast back towards me, stirring it with only minor interest.

"Ailirah?"

"Mm-hm?" I'm not sure I'm going to actually manage to shovel this down. Something about oatmeal is suddenly wholly unappetizing. Maybe it just needs sugar. Lots of sweet stuff. When Martin didn't continue right away, I looked up, taking advantage of my own distraction to force down a mouthful of oatmeal. Mm. Not as bad as I thought.

I found Martin contemplating his hands. "I didn't…When I said…" He started uncomfortably.

I reached forward, patting his wrist. I'm over it – four brothers, you learn not to hold grudges. "It's okay. I know. I really do know."

"It's not an excuse." Martin grunted. I can tell he's not used to apologizing, or indeed, needing to apologize.

"Hey, you know me." I teased, taking another bite of my unappetizing yet still yummy oatmeal.

"Actions speak louder than words?" Martin answered.

"Easier in some ways, isn't it?" I asked.

He shrugged. "We'll see. I should have this," he motioned to the paperwork, "finished in a day or so."

"You had a breakthrough!" I cheered, forcing myself to show genuine joy at this. I am happy, it's just hard to show it when I'm this tired.

Martin tried not to look too pleased with himself. He did a fairly decent job of it too.

"What is it?" I asked, leaning over to look at the upside-down papers. It's easier to show interest than jump around all excitedly. Takes less energy, too.

"You said Mankar Camoran was headed for paradise." Martin began. "Well, I got to thinking, after Jauffre told me, very unexpectedly, that Caroline would make a full recovery."

I blushed - woops. The fact I needed to tell him, or felt I should, completely slipped my mind. "I forgot to tell you, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did. At first I was rather annoyed thinking you'd lied to me, until I considered exactly what you'd said – twisting the truth, or most of it. Which got me thinking, what if he meant Paradise as a literal _place_, rather than as a way of speaking to his devotees." Martin rustled through his papers, fishing out a sheet, which he eyed askance. "After reading with this in mind, it began to make sense. The book details a way of opening a gateway into paradise – a sub-realm of the Deadlands, which isn't explicitly named. Which explains quite a bit."

"And that's how we're going to get the Amulet back? We're going to send a party in?" I asked eagerly, tiredness finally beginning to melt away in favor of enthusiasm. Hey! We might just be a step ahead now!

"Unfortunately," Martin began slowly, now pointedly not looking at me, "the instructions for the gateway, while complex, I'm actually still working on the specifics, indicate the gateway would be a small one. Perhaps only one person at a time."

"But the Dremora…" I countered.

"They're part of the Mehrunes Dagon's realm – the rules for a mortal body travelling to this Paradise likely don't apply to them." Martin answered.

"Martin…" I began.

"I know you'll volunteer. I'll bear that in mind," Martin declared repressively.

"I remember our talk about no more Deadlands exposure than I could avoid," I answered, prodding my oatmeal, feeling a little bit mutinous .

"And?" Martin looked up.

"And what? You know I'll volunteer; I'll do it again when you've got a way to open this door. But, since we're not there yet, I'll concern myself with any immediate tasks and worry about volunteers or volunteering later. I assume that's why we wound up having this conversation," I pulled my oatmeal back and grimaced. Gross, it's gone cold.

Martin absently picked up the bowl, setting it in one hand, murmuring softly. I watched the flare of magicka play around the ceramic. When he set the bowl back down, steam rose from the contents.

"Thanks…that's handy." I mumbled, but I don't think he heard me.

"I want to teach you a healing spell before you leave." Martin announced.

"Okay, that's probably wise." I finished breakfast silently, though it was not an uncomfortable silence, as with the night before. In fact, it was the same sort of silence one would expect between two people reading two separate books in the same room. A sort of companionable silence.

--A--

"So, when are they going to let you out?" I asked Caro plaintively as we sat on her bed in the infirmary, playing cards to alleviate her boredom and my nervous preoccupation.

"Well, Celia says I can go as soon as I can walk a straight line – but I'm still feeling a little sore. That bastard Dremora punctured my lung! I'm glad you let him have it." Caro complained as she grinned, setting down a winning hand. "We've got to practice more." The grin faded. "How do you fight more than one?"

"They're not usually that strong," I admitted ruefully. "Summoned critters tend to be tougher than the usual trolls." I drew a card off the deck, continuing to frown at my very high hand. "Don't worry – once you're out of here, we can spar. I'd enjoy it, with Baurus and Cyrus determined to keep an eye on Martin until exhaustion renders them insensible…I'm running out of friends."

"Rols?" Caro asked.

"He said, and I quote him 'I'm not going to risk flattening you like a bug'." Shrugging, I watched Caro draw another card. She switched hands – she does this when she doesn't like the hand she's got.

"Yeah, or he's afraid you'll kick his ass." Caro put in. "I win!"

"Not so fast," I stopped her for going for the small pile of low stakes by her knee. "_I_ win."

"Damn it!" Caro scowled. "How do you do it?"

"I'm lucky." I shrugged. "Hey - guess what I found!"

"Does it have to do with why I heard you were collecting bugs like some kind of lunatic?" Caro asked, though she grinned.

"Hey, bats have to eat too." I defended. And I wasn't collecting _bugs_, I was after _spiders_. There's a difference.

"Where'd you find him?" Caro asked, leaning forward intently.

I held my new hand of cards closer to my chest – taking no risks here. "Down in the well room. I trapped him and put him in a box with some spiders after we got you sorted out." I answered. "I wasn't planning on _keeping _him," I defended. "I was going to let him out this evening, now the storm's cleared."

"You've been _really_ bored, haven't you?" Caro asked, perceptively. "Otherwise, you'd have left him down there and just let him out when the weather cleared."

Busted. Adrenaline led to nerves. "Yeah – Martin swears he's _this close_ to a break through. Of course, he's been saying _that_ for hours," I smiled slightly.

"How's he doing?" Caro inquired.

"Okay," I answered, not willing to tell the whole truth in this instance. "He's under a lot of stress, and it's not like he can do much about it."

"Well, _I'm_ worried," Caro announced, setting her cards aside with a sigh, running a hand through her hair. "Jauffre's worried - he was in here this morning, you know."

"Everyone's worried," I repeated my sentiment from the night before, albeit changing the wording. "It's natural – it'll keep us cautious."

"And that Dunmer spy?" Caro asked.

"I haven't heard a word about her, or from her." I answered. I haven't gone looking for her either. "I think Jauffre's taking the interrogation in hand – it might already be over."

Caro and I both lapsed into silence. "Well, I suppose it's time for your afternoon bout." Which is Caro speak for 'I'm getting tired, and have a lot on my mind'.

Nodding, I gathered up the cards. "I'll stop in later, if Celia hasn't released you," I offered.

Caro nodded, settling back comfortably.

Tucking the cards into an empty pouch on my belt I left Caro to her thoughts. I hate waiting.

--A--

Martin worked on, pausing only briefly for supper. Even then he paid little attention to me, or to Baurus and Cyrus who are finally, I'm glad to say, relaxing a little around him. Not relaxing their guard, just unstrapping the spear hafts from their backbones.

At dusk, I fetched the bat in his box. Fidgeting like the rest of us, I moved the enclosure carefully – I remembered early on to set him a dish of water, in addition to the fat spiders. This actually brings back many memories – most of them of my childhood. Brutus knows the woods, of the five of us, he's the one who's usually gone the most and longest.

Lots of people make him edgy, so he likes to avoid crowds – the family doesn't really count.

Surprisingly enough going through the great hall is a shortcut to where I want to get to. It takes more time to leave via the dormitory wing's door to get to the battlements on the north side of the Temple. However, as I crossed it, carrying the bat in his box, Martin hailed me with a tired, "Good evening."

Detouring over to his table, I found that while, yes, he looks very tired, he also looks very pleased with himself. "Good evening." I responded. "Does this mean you have good news, or has the strain finally got to you?" I teased.

"Good news, decidedly…from a certain point of view," he shot back.

"Story of my life," I responded, without missing a beat.

"What's this?" he tapped the box and jerked his hand away as the until-then quiet bat (probably petrified, now that his sanctuary was walking around with him in it) began to rattle and fumble around in the darkness.

"A bat I rescued from the well room the other night," I answered. "Not the greatest place for his kind to be, though no doubt it was better than the storm. I'm releasing him now…do you want to come with us? You've been staunchly studying _here_ all day." I didn't make it sound like an accusation, though it's hard not to remind him he's missed sparring practice two days in a row.

"Yes, I suppose I've been a bit distracted. But, hopefully tomorrow will be better."

I smiled at him, more because it sounds more like an attempt to believe it, rather than actual belief. "That's right." I encouraged. "Nothing wrong with a little optimism. So – do you want to come watch Batty take his leave, or shall I do it alone?" I offered again.

Martin got up, making faces as he straighten dup, muscles hunched over too long protesting the return to standing. "Wow..." he grunted. "_Batty_?" he blinked, the words having caught up with him.

I felt my cheeks bun. "Well…it's a girl thing," I announced a little defensively. "I like bats."

"Of course you do," Martin responded mildly. "I expect caverns and dungeons are full of them."

"Exactly." I responded as we started off. Glancing back I saw Baurus ask Cyrus something, to which the other man shook his head, shrugging, before they followed. What's that about, I wonder? Oh well.

"May I ask you something personal?" Martin spoke up as we stepped out into the cool dusk. With the storm gone the temperatures had come up a bit, but not to the point I'd call 'warm'.

"Feel free." I led us towards the northern battlements – over which there is a steep drop. It's also the same set of battlements from which we both howled like insane wolves last night.

"Why'd you go into the Fighter's Guild? Family pressure?" he asked.

"Is that a way of saying I should have gone into the _mage's_ guild?" I teased.

"No. Just curious." Martin smiled easily back, but it was a smile I'm sure, meant more to set me at ease than because he's in a good mood.

"You don't think maybe I'm simply good at that kind of thing?"

"I think you learned to be good at it." He shrugged. "You're free not to answer."

"If you roll your eyes at me…" I began, frowning. I thought it'd be the best place for me to help, or make a difference. It's very idealistic…although to the point of idiocy but…" Memories from the night before about the way he had spat the word 'idealist' made me wince.

"No," Martin corrected so firmly I looked up, startled by his tone. His expression remained benign, so I wondered if I hadn't misheard him. "It's not idiocy. Idealistic? Perhaps. But…" he looked away, as though he knew _exactly_ what had caused me to wince and felt rather bad about having said it. "…the world would be better off with more idealism, I sometimes think. Do you feel you've accomplished your goal, then?"

Biting my lip I thought back to the Argonian I'd failed to save in the Dagonite shrine. "Sometimes…at first. Problem is, I'm only good at kicking in doors and beating back the undead – I mean, I wound up _specializing_ in artifact recovery, not life-saving." Heaving a heavy sigh I ruffled my hair. "Maybe I should have gone into the clergy." But…I'm doing more to help here, when I'm not cooling my heels, waiting around for plans, or a mission to emerge.

Martin shook his head, looking bemused. "I don't think it would have suited you. I wish my reasons for joining had been as…" he stopped, and I wondered what word he'd discarded. "…as altruistic as yours."

"Can I ask…?" Martin looked up into the gathering gloom, then nodded, leaning on the battlement. I suppose it's only fair. "Why did you join the clergy?"

"I told you about my stint with the Daedra?" he asked quietly.

"A little." Nodding, I leaned forward, nudging the bat's box forward a little, so we'd both have room. I could hear the little creature rustling softly in the darkness, as if he could feel the onset of night.

"I put aside the dark arts when I became a priest…" Martin shook his head. "No, I put aside the dark arts to _become_ a priest," he corrected himself. It took me a moment to realize he felt the first wording, while it put him in a good light, wasn't quite true. The second wording put him in a grayer light, but was a little more accurate.

I appreciate the difference, I truly do…though it doesn't much change the fact that I choose to see him as he is now, and not judge him by who he was. "I did it to atone for what I'd done. Seen." He finished quietly. It's obvious he doesn't like telling this to anyone, but I feel rather pleased he's telling _me_.

Hesitantly I reached over and let my hand drape across his wrist. "No one's perfect, Martin." I truly mean that, from the very bottom of my heart. I mean, look at me – the only person who thinks I'm perfect is my _father_ – and this only applies to me as a person, not necessarily all my actions. Love makes you generously blind, I guess.

I did _not _just think that…did I?

"Perhaps," Martin grunted, evidently unconvinced.

Biting my lip I looked up at his profile. He was looking bitterly into the void of nothing past the battlement, his face full of self-deprecation, bitterness, distaste even. It hurt _me_ to see that amount of self-loathing in one place. Particularly in the face of someone you care about. "Well, it probably saved your life," I said quietly. "Being in the clergy. And you saved others, so..." I offered.

Martin sighed bitterly, apparently unwilling to bite my head off for being idealistic. "'The gods can turn anything to good', so I piously told those who came to me for advice." His free hand shifted, covering mine. "Perhaps I may yet come to believe it myself." At least his tone had lightened a little.

"It'd explain why I woke up in the one prison cell with a way out." I stacked my hand on top of his. This is a silly game I used to play with my brothers – you stack hands, whoever's on the bottom pulls out, and that hand goes on top, and you keep doing it until you get all tangled up. It's fun, if pointless.

I know that look, I realized, as Martin look at our sacked hands.

It's the look of someone who's lost friends. I've so far been spared that pain, though for how long anymore, I can't say. I tightened my grip on his cold fingers. "It's going to be okay, you know." I said, though to which situation, topic or issue I was referencing, even I'm not sure. Still, he looks like he needs to hear it again, and sometimes that's all you can do - tell someone what they _need_ to hear, so they can keep pushing forward.

"In a fair world it would be," Martin shook his head.

I know it's not a fair world. But I do believe we still have a chance for things to be okay – it'll be hard, but the good things in life always lie up a hill. I mean, I'm having a hell of a time, but I'm still optimistic. Things can't get much worse without getting up in our faces, up-close and personal.

"Well, let's let Batty go," I smiled, waiting for him to let go of my hands before removing them. I seem to be getting over my shy-girl jitters pretty well. I shifted so I was sitting on the battlement, leaning against one outcrop so I could balance Batty in his box in my lap. The motion in the box went still as I opened the sliding door and scooped him out, gingerly, his breathing fluttering and fast. "Come on out, Batty-love." I declared to no one in particular, reaching into the box and finding the bat. I felt pressure as he bit into my glove, but not through it.

"Ah…lovebites," I grunted, to Martin's continued amusement as I withdrew the creature, sandwiching him between my hands. "There we go."

"Here," Martin took the box from my knees, then set it on the ground, out of the way.

The bat continued its rapid breathing, blinking in the darkness. Lifting the creature near to my mouth, I whispered. "Off you go. Avoid human buildings – it's dangerous for little guys like yourself." He doesn't understand me, but it makes me feel better to say it.

The bat chirruped as I shifted onto my knees and let him go. The bat squirmed towards my fingertips on his belly then dropped off my hands, his wings catching him, before he swooped off into the night.

Sitting back on my heels I watched the scenery for a moment – it's a spectacular view.

"Ailirah."

"Yeah?" Turning I wedged myself between the battlements, settled comfortably as I pulled off my gloves.

"I have…a mission for you, if you are interested." He said it slowly, and I knew the only reason he came to me to offer it was because I was the so-called creature of fate, and therefore must – to his mind – have the best chance of timely success.

"Really? What kind of mission?" My spirits soared.

"It has to do with the door to Paradise…"

"You're going to let me get involved with that?" I gaped.

"The overwhelming weight of evidence is that you are uniquely suited for the task…and possibly others," Martin responded stiffly. "You said yourself – you specialize in artifact recovery. That's exactly what this mission needs." He chose his words carefully, and it showed.

"What do you need and is it on this plane of existence?" I asked. "Here," grabbing the box to return to Rols in one hand and Martin's elbow in the other I started us back to the great hall. "We'll discuss it at the table – like any Guild mission," I announced.

--A--


	45. Chapter 45

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty-Five

--A--

"Ailirah! It's very nice to see you!" Tar-Meena cried when she swept into our study at the Arcane University, her usual pile of books in hand, a smile on her face. "You look like you're doing well." Having a full set of the _Commentaries_ must keep her spirits up. Well, she's welcome to them – I don't care if I never see them again. And if I do – they'll all find good use as shims for uneven table legs.

"Pretty well – I'm back in the game!" I crowed. It's wonderful to be back, doing what I do best. Artifact Recovery. Martin's mission was, perhaps, one of the simplest I've ever heard – find a Daedric Shrine (he cautioned me repeatedly to be wary of the Daedra themselves, but just as wary of their followers), summon the Daedra (he warned me to use a little common sense when choosing – he's worried, and it came across as very sweet. To the point I ignored the slights against my common sense), win an artifact, bring it back. End of mission.

Artifact recovery, says I.

Martin suggested seeing either Azura or Meridia.

I decided to see Tar-Meena, because I'm _sure_ that while the clergy occasionally mount Daedra-worshipper witch hunts, the Mages' Guild has a more practical interest. And I'm sure they not only know where all the shrines are, but also whether or not the artifact corresponding to the Daedra in question has manifested on Nirn. Granted, it probably won't be a completely accurate list, but better than wandering around Cyrodiil.

"I brought you a present!" I announced, reaching into my backpack and drawing out a small tin, full of the Yokudan tea - which is very popular at Cloud Ruler Temple, and for which I need to find a supplier. I'll have to bug Jules when I get a moment.

"Ooh! What is it?" Tar-Meena opened the tin, sniffed and smiled, her eyes half-closed. "Oh, that does smell nice. I'll get the hot water going. So," she drew tea things out of a cabinet that I thought previously empty - which leads me to believe she figured I'd come back, sooner or later, and keeps things ready just in case. "More Daedric lore?"

"I need to find a shrine with an artifact," I announced.

"Hmm…well, Sheo..."

"Um, no, the Wabbajack's emerged." I answered blandly. "And I don't much care for Boethia either."

"No, I'd imagine you'd want to see a nicer Daedra…if there is such a thing. I'd suggest Azura, for a girl like yourself, but the rumors out of Morrowind are that Azura's Star manifested in Telvanni territory…and that's all we ever heard. They're particularly adept at keeping Daedric artifacts for themselves, you know." Her tone indicates plainly she finds this practice 'cheating'.

How she works that out, I have no idea, but I'm not going to argue the point. Another point I must remember to avoid is the disposition of the Mysterium Xarxes – because she'll want to know who we have researching it. Martin take s a lot of explanation and outright lying, which I'm not willing to do to my best source of information. So, I'll just have to try a little tact and cleverness.

I wish me luck.

"Is this time sensitive?" Tar-Meena asked.

"Yes." Decidedly. Daedra storming Bruma in the near-future? Deep shit for those who get in the way – or at least, mangled corpses, burned stones…death and destruction. The whole bit. You know – it's not as funny _now _as it might have sounded before I saw Jearl's damn orders.

"Oh," Tar-Meena scowled.

"Why?" Watching the Argonian bustle around, I felt my neck prickle.

"Well, I was thinking maybe the best way would be to just go look. You know, the old fashioned way." She teased.

Despite the smirk, I felt a flicker of distaste for the idea. "I am _not_ wandering around Cyrodiil like a cow off her rope."

Tar-Meena choked at this. "I doubt a cow would get very far, anyway. They can be expensive commodities."

Oh gee, thanks. I've been upgraded from dancing chipmunk to expensive cow. What a day to be me.

--A--

Travelling towards my new destination, with a hand-drawn map and Martin's compass, I had time to stew. I didn't like the plan – though undoubtedly it could get a lot worse. On the up-side, I don't have to accept the mission from the Daedric Prince. I _can_ turn around and walk away, if it's too unethical or immoral. Though some might argue I'm playing naive if I think I could get nay other kind of assignment from a Daedric Prince.

Despite the fact I have Mehrunes Razor, I won't use it for this door or Paradise unless it's a last resort. It belongs to Mehrunes Dagon, and I would like to keep that and the Mysterium Xarxes away from him. I don't know, I seem to have gotten the idea he might use it more effectively than another weapon –being as it's his – and I think he's formidable enough without all his artifacts back where they belong.

Or worse – he'd give it to a faithful follower, and _then_ we'd be in trouble. I don't want to see what this thing does to armor, then to whoever's under the armor. I'll bet it's not pretty.

I don't know much about these doors, but I have the nasty suspicion that whatever we use for the door to Paradise is going to…I don't know. Remove itself from our plane of existence, and unless it crumbles into dust on the spot, I'll bet septims to seashells the artifact goes back to its plane of origin – and eventually into the hands of some devoted fanatic.

And again I say, I don't want an artifact that still feels like a fish in my boot back in the hands of anyone who's not on my side of this war. But, if it's a last resort, I'm comforted. I'm learning to plan contingencies.

Now, my biggest worry is making sure the Shrine's patrons don't get too _friendly_. They're a friendly lot, so I've heard, which means I need to pick my time of arrival carefully. I don't want to interrupt anything.

--A--

Fires flickered, the sounds of drums mingling with the smoke. On the daytime side of dusk, I strode into the camp near the Shrine of Sanguine, outside Skingrad. I don't know if it's just me, but I saw several husks of Oblivion Gates as I cut through the back country. It makes me wonder if Daedric Shrines don't somehow encourage Gates to crop up around them, or somehow provide an ease of building them other areas don't have. Of course, I could be wrong, I probably am, but it's worth thinking over.

Regardless, the Sanguinites hadn't gotten too far into their revels when I strode into the camp, feeling very much like a storm cloud. One of the things Tar-Meena warned me about –and which I've taken to heart – is that Daedra worshippers tend to have a looser grip on sanity than the normal devotee of the Nine. What that means, I'm not sure, but it sounds like 'don't hack up the crazies when a simple punch will do'.

They're _Sanguinites. _I'm not here to join the party. I'll be careful, but one hand on me and it's coming off.

The offending hand, I mean. Damn – I should have brought backup. Oh well – it's not like the Dagonite Shrine. Completely different keg of ale. Bottle of brandy. Whatever.

Stepping into the camp's firelight, I was immediately addressed by a Bosmer, dressed in a brilliant assortment of clothes that put me in mind of a circus tent I once saw. Both look a little the worse for wear. "Greetings, fair lady!" He beamed, waving a tankard in one hand without spilling any of the contents. "Fair, fair, lady!" he added cheerfully, though I couldn't help notice there was something not quite…pleasant…the way he said it.

He wants something, and if it's what I think he's not getting it. In fact, one wrong move and I'm going to lose my temper. He won't like that at all. However, fair warning before I start hacking off body parts. I still need to summon Sanguine, after all…though a glance at the shrine effigy made me doubt the wisdom of this, as it depicted a very portly man – with horns growing out of his head – obviously drunk (his posture sort of _leaned_ this way and that), with a very unpleasant expression on his stony face. For the first time I get the feeling it's watching me.

Ridiculous. Still, better than Molag Bal, right?

However, I smiled at the Bosmer, who was by now eyeing me with some interest – he wasn't the only one, but he was the closest. "Have you met my silent partner?" I asked simply, taking the same track with him as I would with any drunk in any tavern, in any city in the province. Fair warning will be given.

Flicking a hand, Frostreaver appeared in it, the blue stone in my ring gleaming briefly while the spell took effect. I gave the weapon a flourished twirl, watching the campfires glittering off the blades before stopping the weapon's progress abruptly. The deadly artistry of the show was not lost on the mer, whose eyes had immediately been captured by the lights flashing off the blades, moving to follow the weapon's progress. "Do you take my meaning?" I asked, contriving to sound poisonously sweet.

The mer backed a way a few steps, looking very uncomfortable. "If you…wish to summon Sanguine…you need only provide the correct offering. A bottle of Cyrodiilic brandy would be best…though you might wish to work on your sense of humor a little first…" he added. Now he thought himself out of reach – he's not, but if it's what he needs to believe to speak coherently – he's a lot braver. "You should loosen up."

"I'll do it on my own time." I announced coolly. "Thank you for the directions." Waving Frostreaver away, I strode up to Sanguine's stone effigy, keenly aware the drums had stopped. If I turn around, I'm sure they'll all have eyes fixed on me, and this time, because I'm here for Sanguine but not as a reveler. Bit of an abnormality for them, I suppose.

I must make me some kind of party crasher. I hope Sanguine doesn't take offense. Heheh. Reaching into my backpack, I found the bottle of Cyrodiilic Brandy. Tar-Meena actually checked to see what offering Sanguine is likely to prefer before I left, so I wouldn't waste time making two and three trips to find it. Fortunately, if you can't get something in the Imperial City, it usually means that something is an expensive import, or extremely rare.

Unlike the brandy, which is simply very strong. I held the bottle for a moment, deciding how I should do this. Finally I uncorked the bottle with a 'pop', and reached up, pouring out the brandy against the statue's plinth. It wouldn't do him any good _in_ the bottle, or so logic says.

The air grew perceptibly thicker as the amber liquid gushed out of its glass container and an uncomfortable heaviness made my limbs feel leaden – not to the point I couldn't move, but to the point it was difficult to do so.

"Ah, yet another supplicant seeking Sanguine's blessing," Sanguine's reedy voice snickered, raising gooseflesh across my skin. "Oh…and it's _you_ – the one with her corset laced two sizes too tight." Another snicker.

I narrowed my eyes. Apart from the fact I don't wear a corset – a corset makes it hard to breathe, and in my line of work, you do a lot of running, so breathing is _essential_ – I don't see how it's any of his business. The fact he seemed to expect me, however, made me instantly more cautious.

Sanguine snickered again. "The one from Leyawiin." He seemed, by now, to be prodding for a response.

"You know about me?" I asked, somewhat at a loss of what else to say, keenly aware of the sounds of bare feet in the grass behind me. His followers are edging in and _I don't like it_. My heart pounded uncomfortably in my throat as I forced myself to calmly look straight ahead, at the brandy-soaked stone of the statue's plinth, not betraying any of my unease.

"We _all_ know about _you_." Sanguine purred. "Or should I say we _know_ all _about_ you?"

Whichever you like, I don't care. I want to get out of here.

"Are we making you nervous?" Sanguine hissed, for the moment sounding as if he were standing behind my shoulder, hissing into my ear. I could almost feel a tickle of breath, smell the unique odor of a low class tavern –the kind where alcohol from countless spilled drinks saturates the wood, where cheap perfumes and cheaper pipesmoke mask the smell of far less pleasant things.

"I came here to…" I began, as diplomatically as I could.

"I know, I know, and you came to _me_. Oho…he's not going to like _that_, is he?" Sanguine snickered, more to himself than to me. "Well, I won't waste your oh-so-valuable time, Miss Prissy."

Count to five, remember to count to five…though, I have to admit, that's a new name for me.

"Well, since you're here, and since you're from Leyawiin…_I_ have the perfect job for you. If you can loosen up enough to do it." I didn't answer – still counting to five over here (make that fifty) – waiting for him to continue. "Castle Leyawiin is such a dull, dreary place. The mistress there is an _especially_ somber soul, and tomorrow she'll be holding yet another excruciatingly dull, deathly boring dinner party. Unless all goes _well_ and you liven things up."

A prank. Can't be that bad. Fortunately I've never thought much of Countess Alessia Caro – she's a snob, and the rumors about her and her Argonian fixation…well, She's not the sort to read _The_ _Lusty Argonian Maid._ In fact if she had her way, she'd burn every copy of the book in the province and then throw the Argonian population in after the books.

Just hearsay.

"Use this spell…" I felt a brush of Daedric magicka. I knew it was Daedric because it felt completely unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. "It only works once, so you'd better not foul it up. Use it on the Countess and her esteemed guests – it'll certainly make the party more interesting." Sanguine laughed again, in anticipation of the havoc.

"All right. I'll be back," I grunted, turning, feeling as though I moved through water, or a hangover. Probably the latter.

"The party is by invitation only," Sanguine declared. I nodded once – of course it is. "And you should probably try to be inconspicuous. Or they may kill you." He sounded almost hopeful – it would be more interesting, I'm sure, if I had to fight my way out of the palace.

Oh, I doubt that – in Leyawiin, the city guard and the Fighters' Guild rub elbows all the time. I know half the garrison by first name and most know me because they know one or more of my _brothers_ – or my parents. Here's to belonging to a big family.

"Have fun then." Sanguine grunted, apparently displeased by my stoic acceptance of the task.

Well, if he knows me, he shouldn't have expected anything else.

Nyah.

--A--


	46. Chapter 46

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty-Six

--A--

The weather in Bruma might stay perpetually cold, but Leyawiin does not. In fact, for the first time in my life I came back and found the temperature agreed with me. The humidity, however, still does not – the vague smell of swamp coming in from Black Marsh tickled my nose and I kept waving at the occasional adventurous mosquito – Leyawiin is thick with them come summertime proper – as I picked my way through the city.

Oddly, though, it doesn't feel like home anymore, and I found myself making plans to get my things from the Guild and move out this very day. Of course, those plans didn't last long, because then I'll have to haul all my things to Sanguine's shrine, let him know the deed's done, then haul everything up to Cloud Ruler Temple, where really don't have space to put it.

Sorry Guildmates, you're going to have to deal with tripping over my stuff a bit longer. It's okay, it's not like it moves around or does anything strange. Despite the fact I felt tired – I had to travel hard to get here the day of the Countess' party – I find myself keenly focused. I don't know who I'm expecting to ambush me here, the Mythic Dawn or my family.

Or both, though that could actually work in my favor.

Wandering through it, the charm of Leyawiin as a city hit me more strongly than ever, though perhaps because I felt like I was no longer a part of it. While Bruma houses are very strong, made of lots of wood and stone, with intricate carvings, Leyawiin's buildings are made of brick, overlaid with stucco, usually in a warm color somewhere between pale yellow and pale orange. People also like gardens out here, since the climate is good for growing things.

As far as the spell Sanguine had 'given' me, I couldn't tell much about it, except a vague certainly it wouldn't kill anyone. Not that this is much comfort. Still – it could be a lot worse.

Staking out the Countess' party can't be difficult either. The main hall – which gives way to the audience chamber, if I remember correctly, is open to the public. Getting into the rest of the household is tricky – but it's less so to get into places like the kitchens or the stables.

Bluffing my way in as a legitimate party guest is out – the guards know me by face, I'd never fool them into thinking I got myself _invited _to the Countess' party. No way this side of Oblivion. Which means I've got to contrive finding a different way in – one that doesn't involve a fancy dress, or me having to fight my way out of the city. I really don't want to hurt anyone – especially not with the news of Adamus Phillida's unexpected death.

Poor guy – he was a good man, by all accounts. They say the Dark Brotherhood did it – which only goes to show the assassins have no sense of honor or decency.

One drawback of living at Cloud Ruler Temple – I live almost without news from the outside. While I'm trying to get from one place to another doesn't leave much time for gathering gossip and current events either. Maybe other Blades manage to keep well-informed, but until I find out how to get into the information loop, I might as well live at the bottom of the Nibenay Bay.

In other news, however, I spotted the wreckage of a Gate outside Leyawiin's walls, worrisomely close to the city. No doubt my brothers paid the Daedra a visit, just like Roge said. Good – hopefully they're putting the word about.

Meanwhile, I have a bit of investigating to do.

The castle loomed up ahead of me, and it was something of a relief to get out of the bright sunlight and into the cool main hall, where I stood for a moment blinking the 'green' out of my vision. Ugh…bright light, dark room…my eyes are watering…

"Do you have an appointment?" one of the guards asked, as I stood rubbing my eyes.

"Mm…no – I'm actually here on business. I'm Fighters' Guild," I responded, taking my hands away from my eyes.

The guard squinted at me, as though he couldn't' quite place a name with my face – well, my looks have changed a little bit - then blinked in surprise. "You're Markos' baby sister, aren't you?" he asked finally.

"Yeah, that's right."

"Thought you were out of town?"

"Well, you know how it is – business is great since Blackwood bowed out." In Leyawiin, this is the right thing to say. The Blackwood Company succeeded in making itself extremely unpopular with the city watch, given their rather cutthroat business methods. However, Jules and Uncle Modryn put all that to rights.

The guard gave a mirthless laugh. "I'll just bet – and those Gates…look like they've been rubbing off on you too, girl."

"Yeah, well, couple that with a lack of beauty sleep," I gave a pronounced yawn. Mmm. Been doing that all day.

The guard chuckled. "Guild business, huh? All right, on you go – but don't get underfoot! There's one of the Countess' to-dos tonight, and she'll flay alive anyone who fouls up the preparations," the guard warned staunchly. More likely he doesn't want to get his ass chewed by said aristocrat. Well, sacrifices are going to have to be made, for the sake of Imperial security.

I just hope people see it that way, once the whole story comes out, or I'll be _persona non grata_ here for the rest of my life.

"Understood, I'll be brief and discreet," I answered, then turned into the main hall. Thank goodness for people who make assumptions. They hear 'Fighters' Guild' and 'business' in the same sentence and they immediately assume you mean 'Fighters' Guild business'.

My plan is actually very simple – so much so I'm pretty sure I can sneak out before anyone can do anything about me, or Sanguine's prank. The way I expect the banquet hall to work, is with two entrances: guests, guards, and the hostess enter from the main hall, just before the audience hall.

There's the door – right where I expect it to be. The guard standing in front of it, keeping people out practically screams 'the party will be here – find another way around'.

In a sensible household, a dining room had two entryways – one of which is located in the kitchen, because food has to get from point A to point B _somehow_ – and you don't have the wait-staff coming in and out through the same entrance the guests' use.

Which is how I plan to get in. Doing my best to look like I not only belonged, but was on a definite mission I finally located the massive kitchen, then the door and passage which led to the dining room. In all the hustle and bustle, no one saw me slip out of the kitchen's side door, into the castle courtyard, at which point I hurried at a brisk walk to the Castle gates, getting a feel for how much time it would take.

Once I'm out of the castle grounds, I'm confident in my ability to disappear into Leyawiin. I simply can't go hide at the guildhall - people who see me will expect as much. Hmm. I wonder if Jules would expel me for this? It might make my life a little easier – never mind I'm starting to toy with the idea in earnest again. Then again, we did have our talk back in Bruma…maybe he listened.

What he probably hasn't done is consider I'm not a liar by nature, and I don't keep information back without a good reason. Of course, since I can't tell him any of what I'm doing, the logical assumptions it's either illegal, immoral, or I'm simply wasting time, goofing off when I could be doing something more constructive.

I'm borrowing trouble. I should get ready for tonight.

--A--

At exactly six o'clock the well-dressed guests began to enter the dining room, chattering excitedly as if they had never done this before. I don't see what's so interesting, unless it's a novel experience to have supper at a castle, and for this crowd I don't think that's the case.

Waiting discreetly in the wings, I watched Countess Caro join her guests, smiling demurely. Something about her rubs me wrong – which is why I don't feel as guilty about breaking up her party as I might otherwise.

Countess Caro entered the party. I slipped snakelike into the hallway towards the kitchens, where the servitors were in a real state. You'd think they would have this down, as often as the Countess has these parties, but no. The kitchen resolved itself into an advanced state of chaos, which allowed me to stand off in a corner virtually unnoticed.

Once the first course was taken out of the kitchen, and all the servitors returned I slipped into the hallway leading to the dining room as the head cook began shouting about why something wasn't where he left it, or in the condition he needed it. What a foul mouth – and I thought I was bad. Still, the food does smell pretty good. Too bad I'm about to ruin dinner's progression.

The dining room itself proved the exact opposite of the kitchen. Quiet voices murmured above the sounds of silverware clattering on dishes. The wooden door to the kitchens is actually not visible from the dining room, but located down a short hallway. I suspect so the opening and closing of the door doesn't disturb the diners. In this case, it let me have a discreet look at the Countess' seating arrangements before I had to do anything.

The door to the main hall stood slightly ajar, and it looks as if the guard is standing with his back to the door, ears pricked for any sign of trouble, but perhaps not really expecting any. Well, that's about to change.

From what I understand I have only one shot at this, and I need to make sure all the party members are caught in the wash of the spell – otherwise I'm sure that skunk Sanguine will tell me, because I didn't get them all, there's no deal. I am not putting my reputation as an upstanding citizen on the line just to hear 'almost only counts in horseshoes, Miss Prissy.' He would say something like that, too.

Quelling my butterflies – the closer I get to actually doing this, the more I don't want to. Call it an attack of conscience…deep breath. In. Out.

It's not a touch-ranged spell – not if Sanguine wants the whole group affected. Closing my eyes I called the spell to my hand, more by instinct than by incantation – see what I mean about Daedric magicka being strange?

Then I stepped free of my cover, pointed my open palm at the center of the table, and spoke the last word aloud.

The sounds of a strong voice crackling with magicka caught the attention of the diners just before the spell hit. For a moment the guests gasped, as if I had simply dumped cold water over them. The countess was halfway out of her seat, a particularly angry expression on her face when the spell took effect.

Her clothes started to fade, melting away like sugar into water. Oh crap…the whole dining room has this problem and…is it a little drafty in here…?

Oh _shit_! And my ring is gone too! No summoned armor…_shiiiiit!_

The guard barged in as people began to shriek, squeal, and squabble over the tablecloth. I, on the other hand, could only think '_Sanguine you _bastard_!'_, rather numbly.

"Oi! You're under arrest!" The guards barked, his eyes falling on me after bugging at the sight of so many people running around in their birthday suits. "Dammit girl! Is _this_ Guild Business?!"

"Nope…Imperial security…" I answered numbly, absently fingering where the pendant should lie. I feel decidedly naked without it – my good luck, my way to come back.

That _bastard_! Even my lucky _pendant_ is gone! Oh _shiiiiit_! This is _bad_...

Oo

They _booked_ me. They have officially booked me with disturbing the peace, trespassing, breaking and entering (I don't see how they figured that one out), indecent exposure, delinquency, irresponsibility, embarrassing the Countess, and general malicious intents. Not to mention I got reamed by everyone who knew me, then lectured by everyone who knows my brothers (they went by turns, in order from oldest brother right down the line – then I got it from the handful who know my _parents_, and heard a lot of 'if your mother could see you now' or 'if your daddy hears about this he'll' – yeah,yeah, yeah, it's in one ear, out the other. I just want to get out of here.)

The fine comes out to something like a hundred septims (which is in transit from the guildhall to here), and they put out a message to Julius as the Guildmaster (who is carrying my gold for the fine, and some fresh clothes for me – I'm wearing prisoner's clothes again, but not for long.).

"Thanks, Callum," I heard Julius saying to one of the garrison, before he entered the room in which I sat. The look Julius gave me said it all. At one point in my life it might have reduced me to tears, now I had to resist the urge to sigh softly – if you knew the half of what was going on, you woudln't look at me like that. "Damn it Ailirah," he grunted, pushing the door shut. "I thought you were doing something important, not cavorting around seeing how much trouble you could get into." His words held a sense of betrayal as well as frustration as he tossed me the tattered backpack, with my clothes and gold in it. A lot of gold, as a matter of fact…like everything I ever stowed back at the guildhall.

Hmm.

Turning around I began to change my clothes, knowing Julius would turn his back also. "I am." I answered simply, for once not feeling the urge to spill my guts and tell Big Brother everything that was happening. I've got someone's secret to protect.

They've protected me well up until now, and I've been patient with it. But now I've had a taste of it, I'm ready to live my own life. That life doesn't include letting my brothers pack me in a pillow-lined box when I'm not in a dungeon somewhere, looking for crystals or treasure or whatever.

"How does parading around in your altogether, at the Countess' dinner party, casting spells like that count as important?" Jules demanded, not bothering to mask his frustration or his disappointment.

The fact I actually cast a spell hasn't caught up with him yet.

"If I told you it was a matter of imperial security would you believe me?" I asked with a frown. Honestly, Jules has only half, no a _third_ of my attention.

Sanguine better have all my stuff _safe_ somewhere near his shrine, or I'm going to put him on my shit-list forever, and as soon as we're done with Mehrunes Dagon…it's _his_ turn. Fetcher. He should've warned me about that stupid spell. Bastard.

"I fail to see how this could be Imperial security, Ailirah, so _no_!" Julius snarled.

Turning around, I found him stewing and glowering. You know, I begin to wonder which of my detractors haven't been pressuring him about my dereliction of duty and favoritism. I'll bet I can guess.

"On top of which…when did you stop being a mundane?" Julius asked, trying to master his annoyance with me. Good luck – you'll need it.

"Not too long ago." I answered feeling a little guilty by now - though not because of the Countess' embarrassment.

"Ailirah…" Julius turned to me, his expression grace as he looked me over. "I don't even know who you are anymore."

"Tongues are wagging, huh?" I asked, and when Julies gave me a pained look, I closed my eyes, nodding slowly. More than talking, and in a way, I suppose they're right. Looking Julius in the eyes I swallowed hard, feeling a cold sensation settling into my stomach. "I understand." It's not that they're pushing him around, it's gotten to the point where his conscience recognizes if anyone else followed my example, he'd be out of the guild. Never mind I've always had less leeway than anyone else up until now.

I suppose it doesn't stack up for a rainy day, after all.

"Wish I did," Julius growled. "I brought all your gold, Einar and Bellona are keeping an eye on your things. But I'm going have to tell you, Ailirah, Guildmaster to subordinate…" I can tell this is costing him something. "If you don't report into my office before you leave this city, and report on what the hell is going on…don't bother coming back."

No sooner had the last word left his mouth then Jules turned on his heel and swept out – which, in common, means he's running away from words he doesn't want me to test. With a sigh I rooted around in the backpack, finding my usually unused sturdy silver knife….

Oh shit, I had Mehrunes Razor in my boot…Sanguine better have that too, or it's going to get ugly.

Swinging my backpack on, I paid my fine and hurried out of the castle. At the castle gates I stopped, looking in the general direction of the guildhall, then towards the city gates, then back, shifting my backpack on my shoulders uncomfortably.

It was a defining moment in my life. I took a very long look towards the guildhall, the place I spent most of my life….

…and then walked away towards the city gates, without checking in, or making any sort of report.

--A--


	47. Chapter 47

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty-Seven

--A--

To say I felt tired while approaching Sanguine's Shrine was an understatement. I actually feel exhausted, despite the fact I slept fairly well, having stayed the night in Bravil before carrying on to the long leg of the journey. It's a little odd, knowing I'm not really a part of the Fighters' Guild anymore. It's not _painful_, but it's not pleasant either – like slipping a lifeline on a ship in a storm. Dangerous, possibly stupid, but sometimes necessary – _no_ I haven't actually _done_ it. Oh well, I guess it'll wear off. At least my brothers can only bug me as brothers, not as brothers _and_ guildmates (or Guildmaster, as applicable) anymore. Still...I don't think I ever felt so..._alone. _

The Sanguinites, however, are at it early – even from beyond the point where their camp is lost to view I can hear the music. I'm too mentally tired to care whether I break up their party – I'm here for Sanguine, an artifact and all my stuff – I _really _want my stuff. Then I'm out of here – back to Cloud Ruler Temple where I belong. I might feel a little more philosophical about this after a couple days not spent on the road, but with events stacking up as they are, I won't hold my breath.

Ugh – I'd face a dozen Dremora all by myself for one long, quiet, uninterrupted good night's sleep. In a real bed.

Those revelers not playing instruments cavorted about the bonfire in the middle of the encampment, which the statue of Sanguine faced, the flickering flames across his carved features giving a startling imitation of life. It's downright creepy to see the statue winking or features seeming to leer at the party – it's just stone, after all…right?

Quite aside from the creepy statue, the drummer needs some time alone with his drum, to learn to use it if nothing else. Or maybe he just has no rhythm – not everyone is rhythmically gifted, after all. I can hammer on an Elswerian drum all day and keep my rhythm.

Damn that was a fun trip. I'd even take the necromancers in their lair, right about now.

The fumes of brandy mingled with cheaper ale as well as the eye-stinging smell of wood-smoke and roasting meat. Eyes watering, head beginning to pound from too many thoughts, too many smells, and the flickering firelight I strode forward. Did Oblivion sharpen my sense of smell, or is it just that bad around here?

"Back comes the adventuress!" The Bosmer I'd threatened my first visit slurred slightly, his eyes slightly unfocussed. Like the other revelers, but unlike the first time I was here, he wore clothing similar to that portrayed in Sanguine's statue. Which is to say, very loose and not something you want to see a Bosmer wearing. Not this particular Bosmer, anyway – some things are better left to the imagination. "He is waiting for you," the mer motioned to the statue with his mug. The way he was smiling at me, however, is one I know very well – it means there's a joke running, and I'm not in on it. Which makes it doubly amusing for everyone else, watching the uninformed blunder around in ignorance. Or innocence.

"Dare I ask what's so funny?" I muttered under my breath. Was I supposed to bring more brandy? Because if Sanguine thing I'm going to buy him _another_ drink after the _fiasco _at Castle Leyawiin, he's sadly mistaken.

Kiss and make up is out of the question as well. I'd rather kiss a guar. Or a kwama. Ugh.

"Well, here I am." I announced myself, feeling incredibly awkward but more annoyed than anything else. I'm not going to simply stand here and gape at the statue until Sanguine notices I'm here – there's nothing I like enough to gape at. I'm not a student waiting to see the headmaster, dammit.

Sanguine's laugh preceded the thickening of the air. "Tsk, tsk. Someone's feeling hostile." Came the sing-song announcement, followed by a drunken giggle.

Not yet, but I'm getting there. I'm not buying the drunkedness either. However, as jovial as he's supposed to be, Sanguine's also supposed to be pretty quick-tempered, so unless I want to fight off his revelers trying to cut out my tongue, I should attempt politeness, despite my own irritation.

"Well maybe a drink would help with that." Sanguine suggested, the shadows of his carved face approximating a smirk and an odd movement near his eyes. Even the cup in his hand seemed to hold gently sloshing dark liquid. For a second seeming to stretch ages, I thought I saw something more than just wine drip from the cup. Blood and malice fermented in scorching heat, making the dremora-ish part of me cackle in anticipation of...something terrible, no doubt.

Unease writhed in my belly as I reasserted calm control over my apparently darker bents. I'll bet Sanguine triggered them, too. It's _his _realm of influence, darker bents. "No thank you, I'm working." I answered stiffly, feeling as thought I were suddenly caught in the eyes of too many enemies to fight at once. This is too weird…is it something in the smoke? Remembering Martin's admittance to a bad brush with Daedric magicka, I wondered if I wasn't in for something similar. Then again, I'm no mage…but I am pretty much unarmed. I don't think a silver knife is going to be of much help. "It's done."

"Yes," Sanguine snickered and again I felt like someone dragged a cold knifepoint up the bare skin along my spine, goosebumps raising in the sensation's wake. You know…the sensation vaguely reminds me of something, but I can't quite put my finger on it… "And quite apart from being a rousing success, you joined in the festivities!"Sanguine cackled again.

"Ha ha." I announced coolly. "That was very amusing for all involved." Amusing my left foot. I managed to shove my mortification aside once, but the thought of getting ogled by Sanguine made me want to break something. His statue's face sounds like a good place to start.

"What can I say? You needed to lighten up. You could still do with loosening that corset a couple sizes. As you can see, we're planning a party. It'd be a good opportunity to start." Sanguine's voice again seemed to come from behind my shoulder, carrying a waft of hot, spirits-laced fetid breath against my skin, so much so I twitched my head to look. "Feeling jumpy, are we?" Sanguine rasped softly, a cruel smile in his tone.

Count to five and remember you have only a silver knife.

"What's the occasion?" I asked, before really thinking about who I was talking to or why. He doesn't _need _an occasion – he makes them up as he goes, I'm sure.

"I'm winning a bet." Sanguine answered smugly before laughing again. "Could be fun, you know."

"Well, apart from the fact I'm in a hurry, I also don't have a date," I shot back, feeling nettled. "Now..."

"Yes, I suppose your first pick _would_ lie to you, tell you our parties aren't much fun. He certainly used to enjoy them." Sanguine noted dryly. "His sense of humor's gone straight to the bottom of the Sea of Oblivion, attached to a rock bearing the notice: 'sense of humor, do not retrieve'…though if asked, I'm sure he'd agree about that corset problem of yours…" Sanguine snickered.

His followers, having ceased their frolic snickered softly, almost sinisterly.

Okay, first of all, I don't wear a corset, second of all, I don't need your opinion or anyone else's about it, and thirdly…hell. You don't even know anyone that I know who would _care_ what I wear – or don't wear – so why am I talking to myself? Dammit – marginal sanity among Daedra worshipers and it's _starting to rub off on me_!

Craaap!

"You've been drinking a little." I announced, so grimly I might have been telling him his cat had died.

"Heheh, more than a little," Sanguine responded as pleasantly as the Daedric patron of hedonism, debauchery and dark indulgences can sound pleasant. I'll bet there are several bottles of skooma lying around under a couple of the rocks near the camp – for later.

"Still, I wasn't aware Mehrunes Dagon had a sense of humor to begin with." I noted, if somewhat sourly. Even if he did, I'm sure the only thing he wants to see me wearing is a pine box – or the silver-white shroud for someone lying on her funerary barge – I don't think I've given much thought to how I want my remains disposed of, provided there are any remains to begin with. Scamps and clannfear are pretty efficient.

I'm still a little surprised I got an audience with Sanguine, now that I think about it: how many Daedra would be willing to cross Mehrunes Dagon? Then again, if Mehrunes Dagon gets is way, I don't imagine there will _be _any Sanguinites left – so there goes the ego boost of being someone's deity.

"Oh, he doesn't," Sanguine snickered. "In fact, I think it's safe to say he'd be happy to squish you like a little bug first chance he gets. He's not happy." Sanguine sounded delighted. "No sense of humor there, either."

You know, I think I just fell headlong into a verbal pit.

"Never had," Sanguine enumerated, though I begin to doubt he's talking for no reason at all, or for the sake of hearing his own voice. He's up to something…and it's making me uneasy. More uneasy. "With him it's all gloom and doom and acid rain, lava in rivers – you've seen his corner of Oblivion."

"Yeah, it's cozy," I muttered, though I'm sure Sanguine didn't hear me.

"No, I was actually referring to someone _else_." When I didn't take the bait Sanguine snickered. "Is ignorance truly that blissful?"

"I'm afraid I don't follow," I responded sweetly. Whatever he says is liable to be only half-true at best, after all.

Sanguine snickered again, and again I felt the uncomfortable sensation along my spine…

Wait a minute – I know what it reminds me of – strangely enough, it's like Martin's magical signature…only I know which I prefer. Something soft and silky is much preferable to the kiss of cold steel. "Let's just say someone _dear_ to you was _near_ to me once." Sanguine's voice rumbled, then he snickered again.

No way. For a moment my mind's eye had Martin in the Bosmer's getup, and I know which one I'd rather look at.

My face must say it all, because Sanguine continued. "Oh yes, before your fearless leader became a priest and played the good boy, he was one of us. And _very good_ at what he did, too. Or did he consider _that_ detail unfit for…innocent ears?" Sanguine purred.

"I don't believe you, and I really don't have time for this," I fell back on my initial insistence of feeling in a hurry. He's just trying to mess with my head, or sow doubts or something. Get me rattled. Still...Martin's lean lines could fill out that outfit _really_ well...

Damn Daedra.

"It doesn't matter what you believe, Gatewalker – in the end facts are facts. And the fact remains your precious would-be emperor was once one of my revelers…a _favored_ one too." Sanguine snickered again.

Okay, I don't need this rattling around in my head, or the distractions which come along with it.

"Speaking of followers and belonging, I'd love to know if you've got _my_ belongings lying around here somewhere, seeing as it was _your_ spell that…ah, _separated_ them from me." Separated? He damn well _stole_ them! Nicked my stuff, right off my back – I'm not pleased about it. One of the most mortifying moments of my life, now that it's over and I can look back. Absolutely mortifying.

"I might." Sanguine answered, his voice full of malevolent humor, all traces of pleasantry gone. "Tell me – does he share his visions with you?"

"Sometimes." I answered before I could stop myself. I should have just lied and said 'no'. I don't mind lying to Sanguine. I don't even _like _him, and I don't owe him anything. Fetcher.

"Ah…only sometimes…" Sanguine was silent a moment, and the silence stretched to the point I turned to look at the Sanguinites, all of whom looked puzzled, as though I were talking to myself…maybe, as far as they were concerned, I'd begun to. Nice to know some things can be treated as part of a private conversation. "And what about you?"

"You said you knew all about me." I answered cheekily.

Sanguine gave a booming laugh that made his followed flinch. "Hehe – maybe you're not a lost cause, after all. And the Razor? What about that? Big secrets being kept."

I didn't ask how he knew. "It's with me, isn't it? He doesn't need to worry about it. No one does."

Sanguine snickered again. "If you say so."

"And don't you dare tell him," I snarled, an idea occurring to me.

Sanguine laughed again, though this time there was an edge of displeasure to it. "Strain your brain, Gatewalker," he warned, his tone dangerously soft before he continued, more normally. Guess he doesn't like back-sass. "Doesn't matter anyway – he doesn't really listen anymore…doesn't mean I can't chat with him…and believe me it's going to get _interesting_…"

Looking up at the statue, the feigned humor vanished from my face. Not only did I feel as though Sanguine were eying me up and down, but the thought of him whispering _anything_ to anyone...

"You keep your claws _out _of his head!" He doesn't need weird vision, bad dreams, or anything like that on top of the problems he's already got. Especially not the sort of stuff Sanguine's likely to conjure up.

Sanguine didn't laugh, the silence grew close and for a moment I debated going for my knife. I think I've gone too far, but I'm also sure I don't care. "How do you intend to _stop_ me if I choose to intervene? Or interfere?" Sanguine asked, without humor.

I struggled to some up with an answer, any answer, but my silence spoke loudly.

"That's right," Sanguine noted acidly, "You've got one us on your plate right now. Trust me, you don't want to face _two_. So pack your indignation up nice and tight then stuff it safe inside your bodice." My cheeks burned slightly – safe place to keep something, but so damn rude. "Or maybe," came the seductive hiss, "you're so wound up cause I've touched a nerve."

Darker aspects. I backed up uneasily, unwilling to show he had me by the scruff of the neck, unable to maintain perfect bravado. The silence thickened the air yet again, and this time I felt my limbs getting heavy.

"Yes, I think I have. Your possessions are in the box – just there." A shadow flickered where a shadow shouldn't have flickered at all. I'm sure the box wasn't there before now.

Walking over to it, I began unpacking my gear. My last change of clothes, my ring of summons, gold and Mehrunes Razor lying safely in my left boot. At the very bottom I found my pendant and slipped it on, rubbing my thumb in circles around the little stamped disc for a moment before sliding my ring holding the summons for my bound armor and Frostreaver onto one hand. Apparently both returned to their place under my bunk, where they wait when I'm not using them.

Sanguine's revelers chattered softly, but they continued to watch the statue, and my progress as I re-packed my things. With Mehrunes' Razor back in my boot, I felt less comfortable, but more confident. Sanguine could easily have 'lost' it – which would have irritated me greatly.

"Ask him if he's seen what you'll be." Sanguine breathed, once I straightened up, closing the box with a sort of 'I'm finished' finality. "Evil. Cruel. But _so powerful_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," I responded stiffly, my mind latching onto what he was hinting at more quickly then I wanted to admit. Everyone has nightmares about what could happen if they fail. Even worse if they fall from grace. I don't like to think about it, but ever since Martin referred to me as a creature of fate…the concern has crossed my mind.

Right now I'm not ethically or morally capable…but if I was…

Sanguine's chuckle made me shift, as I felt the sensation of a blade running along my spine again. "Oh yes you do. Deep down, you already know. You mortals are so amusing – you see what you want to see. You pretend so hard not to see…but in the end all the same, behind the pretenses you know better. I don't see why you bother to lie to yourselves. So much wasted energy – it could be better applied to other things."

"We're not the only ones." I growled, turning on my heel to stomp off into the darkness, head bowed. A dark skirt blocked my way. Looking up, I found myself looking at…myself. Almost – an illusion, conjured either by one of the revelers, or maybe by Sanguine himself.

Well, me but not me. This apparition's face was more angular than mine, having given up the roundness of a sheltered life. There was something in her expression, the quirk of her mouth, the set of her eyebrows, a smug superiority hinting at pain in the future of whoever she was watching.

I didn't much care for her wardrobe either, the little hussy. The closer I look, the more _skuzzy_ she looks. There're two types of filthy, I've decided. The good kind, which is what happens when you go dungeon diving, camping, or other outdoorsy things. And then there's this bitch.

"Very amusing, but I doubt I could ever squeeze into something like that. Much less do anything once I had." I announced, contriving to sound bored. Who was it making corset comments? If that thing's laced any tighter, she'll be breaking ribs.

"That's the idea," Sanguine snickered. "Tell him I said hello – you don't outrun a Daedric Prince forever, sweetheart. No one does."

"I'll bear that I mind."

"Oh, please do. And you're forgetting something. You can come get it. I won't bite. Too hard."

Turning, without a smile I found a staff leaning against the plinth of the statue. Now I _know _that wasn't there before. "It's what you came for, isn't it?" Sanguine asked, sounding fully amused again. "Now, unless you want to join in the party – put in some practice, as it were – get lost. Scram."

Wordlessly I took the staff, without really examining it and left the ring of firelight, Sanguine's booming voice declaring the revelry open for the evening.

You know, I suspect most of that conversation was kept private, despite Sanguine's onlookers. And I also suspect while he might have lied, hinting Martin was once one of his…I don't think the words prince, heir apparent, emperor, or the like ever cropped up.

And it doesn't matter. He's lying. Even if he wasn't…would it matter to me? He's served dedicatedly as a priest for…how long? No, it doesn't matter to me, it would be a past he's turned his back on…

So if I don't believe it why am I harping on about it?

Damn Daedra.

--A--


	48. Chapter 48

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty-Eight

--A--

Studying it as soon as I felt comfortably far enough away from the Shrine, I decided the Sanguine Rose was undoubtedly one of the strangest staves I've ever seen in my life. It's probably a quarter-length shorter than the usual variety, meaning I can't lean on it while I walk. The wood itself isn't any kind I've ever seen before, faintly reddish, with the darker grain fully visible, which gives the rose carved at the head of the artifact a silky sort of appearance. Hewn glassy-smooth, there's a certain warmth in touching it - except near the base, where carved thorns poke out – meaning I have to watch my ankles. I suspect they're poisoned with something to cause lethargy at the very least.

And this all very odd, because it looked vaguely green when I took possession of it, back at the Shrine. Firelight playing tricks, maybe…or is it Sanguine and his incorrigible so-called sense of humor?

Regardless, the journey back to Cloud Ruler Temple grated on my nerves. Maybe I'm spending too much time alone with only bleak thoughts for company. Okay, not all of them were bleak. Still, the illusion of the possible-me has me feeling pretty rattled. There's something to seeing yourself like that. I was mad at the time, so I could blow it off…but worries about the most common cliché about people turning into the very thing they hate or are fighting began to gnaw at the back of my mind, like termites at a house.

Of course, this made it difficult to sleep – however when I got to sleep I had more trouble staying there. I don't know if it was some game Sanguine was playing at a distance, or if it was just my own imagination. Neither is particularly reassuring, given the fact that any one of these dreams were enough to make me blush (at the very least) and would have killed my brothers had they been privy (again at the very least).

All I know is they're not thoughts I ought to be having about a priest, much less about Martin.

See? I'm blushing again, stomping through the undergrowth.

The worst of it is…some of all that might be fun to try…

Damn Daedra. I never wished more heartily for an ambush than _right now_. I'd better get this blushing under control before I get _back_ or people will either throw me in the infirmary thinking I'm _sick_, or the awkward questions will start to crop up and I don't need that.

And he doesn't need a wide-eyed idealist toddling after him. _No one_ needs that kind of irritation.

Ugh. My crush has just become full-blown asinine. I thought maybe it might be something more than just a crush, but now I'm not so sure. At least I'm not swooning – _that_ indignity might kill me.

Damn it!

I should have just gone and asked for the Wabbajack. Less hassle.

--A--

Cloud Ruler Temple's war machine is moving. Security doubled in the time I was gone, and fewer and fewer of the Blades walked around in anything other than light armor. Weapons were inspected – mine the moment I got back. It nettled me to have someone telling me my weapons could do with a little work, especially when it all sounds cosmetic. I know the condition of Frostreaver better than anyone else.

A warrior's soul is in her sword, remember?

However, it was still fairly early in the morning – I stopped last night in Bruma, at the Inn rather than brave the trail in the dark. I'm still irrationally afraid I'll fall off it, bumbling about, even with my better than average night-vision. I'm early enough for breakfast but apparently too early for Martin, who was not at his table in the great hall, and when I checked the chapel, Cyrus met me there.

He looked exhausted, and a little cranky, so I spared him any glib remarks. "Morning."

"Morning." He grunted back. Apparently I'm still too cheerfu, this early in the morning. Then again, Cyrus and Baurus both like to burn the candle at both ends – they stay up late, get up early, and do it again the next day. I can't fault their dedication, but it's nice to know I'm not the only one with tendencies some would call lacking in common sense. "Martin wants to see you."

"Now? I thought he was sleeping." I dislike waking people up, on principle, unless I'm annoyed with them, or it's an emergency. Especially as I don't like people waking me up before I'm ready to awaken.

Also, I don't see delivering the Sanguine Rose, now safely wrapped in a length of cloth, as an emergency. Far from it.

"He said 'as soon as she gets back'." Cyrus gave me another annoyed look.

"What?" I demanded, by now scowling. "What's with the looks?"

"Dare I ask what _that_ is?" He pointed to the stick-looking parcel I carried.

"You could…but…" The question caught in my throat. No, if I'm going to ask anyone, I'll ask Martin to his face. Or maybe Jauffre – oh _hell_! What Blades in their right _minds_ would let him wander right into Sanguine's merry little band, even if all was well with the Empire at the time? The idea is ridiculous! Think of the security risks!

"You okay?" Cyrus asked, rubbing his eyes. When he took his hand from his face, his scowl was gone too, leaving him simply tired.

"Fine!" I announced, as if declaring my hands washed of something. Taking a deep breath I let it out slowly, counting to five.

"You didn't do another Gate did you?" Cyrus inquired softly. "He's not going to like hearing that."

"_No_, I didn't. I just…" leaning on the wall, I should my head. "Daedra rub me the wrong way. When this is over, if I ever see another one again, it'll be all too soon. Fetchers."

Cyrus cracked a grin, assuming the Daedra I mentioned had to do with my odd parcel, thus putting two and two together. "You know – I don't even want to know."

"No, you don't," I muttered softly.

"Don't what?" Martin, looking a little tired but otherwise quite composed, stood leaning on the doorway.

"She just got back," Cyrus reassured Martin, whose eyes traveled first from my expression – please don't let me blush or anything embarrassing – then to the cloth-wrapped artifact in my hands.

I discovered, during an experiment, my dreams were a little less…mature in content…when I didn't carry the Sanguine Rose around in my bare hands. Which I _should_ have expected, and realized very early on. Needless to say, it didn't take me as long to catch onto this possibility as it might have, if I had never handled the Mysterium Xarxes. The first night was enough of a clue.

Still, it's not pain. But I want to be able to look at Martin without expecting the lines between dreams and reality to blur.

Martin looked back at me, uneasily. "I'll meet you in the great hall." Martin said simply.

"I'm on my way there now." Tossing the Sanguine Rose over my shoulder I trotted alongside him, relieved to find that, whatever my somewhat boggled state of mind, I at least felt comfortable in doing so. It was only once Martin settled on a bench, his guards trooping silently after us, that I put the Sanguine Rose down, lying it across Martin's work table, before settling on the bench beside him.

But not too close. Comfortable as I still feel in his company (mostly), I don't want to push my luck.

"You look like a woman with a lot on her mind," Martin remarked simply. He continued to scowl thoughtfully at the cloth-shrouded artifact, but made no move to touch it, as if he mistrusts it almost as much as I do. There's no such thing, I've decided, as a 'safe' Daedric artifact. Not for mortal hands, anyway.

Which makes me worry.

"It was an _eventful_ trip home," I sighed, leaning my elbows on the table. When the silence invited me to elaborate I did so, rather relieved to share the events and not just the 'pertinent to the mission' ones. "Jules…gave me the big ultimatum while I was in Leyawiin." Reaching up I began to chew absently on my thumbnail. I feel oddly _exposed_, now I know I don't belong to the Guild. For the longest time, ti was all I knew...now it's gone. Still, maybe it's for the best.

"Tch. Don't do that." Martin reached up – apparently just as absently – and shooed my hand away.

Well, he's right, it's a bad habit. Letting my hand fall back to the table I shook my head. "So, what did you decide?" Martin asked, bypassing the question of why I was in Leyawiin at all, in favor of letting me tell him in my own time. They must teach this sort of tact at clerics' school.

Looking over at him, I smirked. "Well, I'm certainly not here to get my stuff. He told me either report in before I left the city, or don't bother coming back at all. So I walked off. I was in a hurry." No kidding.

"Have you told him what you're..." Martin stopped under the bemused look I gave him.

"Martin," I began slowly, "not only did he tell me if I called my job 'relation to Imperial security' he wouldn't believe me, but how would I explain _you_, exactly? Because I can't explain what I'm doing without explaining how you figure in."

Martin's mouth twitched, as if to smile – but in a repressed sort of way, as though he didn't want me to think he was laughing at me. "How indeed?"

"But, enough about my dumb brothers…" but I didn't quite smile when I said it. "How are you doing?"

Martin shrugged, letting me change the subject. "I'm all right. A little tired, but," he waved expansively. "here I am."

"Mmm hmm." Nodding I nudged the Sanguine Rose towards him. "Here, I brought this back for you. One Daedric artifact, as requested."

"I see you've learned a few things about handling them," Martin remarked.

"Yeah well, it gave me funny dreams…" I mumbled, eyeing the Sanguine Rose morosely.

Oh shit! I didn't just say that! I did. Damn.

Fortunately, though, Martin didn't seem surprised (and _very_ fortunately he didn't inquire. I can survive an Oblivion Gate, but I'm not sure I could survive answering the question 'what kind of dreams'?). "With some of these things, odd dreams are the least of your worr…" he stopped mid-word. "…worries…" He swallowed visibly, his eyes fixed on the Sanguine Rose, half emerged from its wrapping, as though it were a poisonous snake, or an omen.

No. _Recognition_. Unexpected recognition.

I felt my heart plummet to about the level of my knees as I fidgeted slightly.

Without looking at me, Martin flopped the cloth back over the Rose, as if the sight of it was somehow indecent. "What did he ask of you?" Martin's tone was composed, but a little too much so. My impression is, he doesn't want to sound like he's accusing me of something, but he doesn't want to set off a panic by demanding what I did for the Prince of Revels either. That would damage my reputation.

"Nothing too bad," I answered quietly, and when he looked over at me, I had little trouble meeting his gaze, clear conscience as I have (mostly, and weird dreams aside). Lucky me, given my touch and go composure these past few days. "Just had me play a prank on the Countess in Leyawiin…that's why I ran into Jules." I explained.

"And does Jules know…"

"No, he doesn't." I interrupted firmly. "Jules still thinks I'm …I don't even know. He says he's...not even sure who I am anymore." I couldn't quite keep the tone of shocked surprise out of my voice as I forced the words out. The tone bears a strong resemblance to the expression a person makes when hit unexpectedly across the face. Mildly shocked and surprised, as well as hurt.

Martin hesitantly reached up and put a hand on my shoulder. The warm comforting weight did a lot in the direction of soothing the roil of general upset at Jules' parting words. Here I thought I wasn't bothered by them…apparently, it just took a little longer than usual for them to sink in. "He'll be proud of you, before the end." Martin announced gently.

"You're sure?" I couldn't help the question, immediately wishing I hadn't said it.

Martin's hand on my shoulder tightened. "If he's not then he's a fool."

Maybe. However, I certainly don't want to discuss the topic right now. "So – you've seen this before…" Damn. I meant 'you know what this is'…fortunately, Martin didn't seem to find anything amiss with the question. He probably sees it for what it is: a tactless change of subject.

He nodded, looking at the Sanguine Rose, and then he looked over at me. And when I say 'looked over at me', he took a moment to consciously study my expression before he continued. "Do you know anything of its powers?"

"Nope. I didn't use it." I shrugged.

Martin nodded, almost approvingly. "It has the power to summon Daedra…but the charm is fickle. Much like it's master." He looked away, his expression darkening. "The creature it summons may fight your enemies first, but it will turn on you at first opportunity."

You know, that comment of his about knowing something about Daedric magicka begins to take shape…and my heart _breaks_ for him. "I couldn't read that much…how could you tell?" I asked as innocently as I could manage.

"It was once mine." Martin answered. "A lifetime ago, it seems. I never thought I'd see it again." I read this to mean 'I had hoped never to see it again'.

"Oh…" and when Martin looked over at, me arching his eyebrows I sighed, leaning on the table, examining my hands. "He…ah…Sanguine mentioned you." I mumbled this last, as discreetly as I could.

"Did he? And what did he tell you?" I couldn't see Martin's face, but his tone was carefully controlled again.

I shook my head. "I don't know. Some bullshit," I grunted.

Martin got to his feet, for a moment I thought he was walking away because he was upset with me, but he simply stood there, looking down at me. "Walk with me."

"What about…" I tapped the table as I got off the bench.

Martin gave the Sanguine Rose another odd look. "It's not going to wander off. No, stay here, please," he added to his entourage when they moved to follow him. "I'm not going far," which hints to me, he's a little tired of being cooped up. Baurus looked at me, then nodded to his partner.

Thanks Baurus.

I sauntered along at Martin's shoulder, out into the bright sunlit morning. The idea of stepping outside in order to have a more private conversation seems about right to my way of thinking. "What did he tell you?" Martin repeated.

With another sigh of 'I don't want to talk about this' I forced my feet to keep walking, when what I really wanted to do was simply stand still. "He just mentioned you used to be…one of his," I declared euphemistically. "I thought it was some bullshit he dredged up to try and rattle me – I don't like him much." I grunted.

"No." And when I smiled, inviting agreement that Sanguine is a pond scum-sucking bottom feeder of the worst sort, Martin shook his head, stopping us by one of the battlements overlooking the steep drop. "He wasn't lying, Ailirah."

My smile faded slightly. I can't believe he's admitting to this. "You don't have to tell me." I offered lamely. "It's not my business."

Martin turned, to face me, as opposed to the clear air. "No, but…you have a right to know. Particularly as you spend so much time doing…"

"Artifact. Recovery." I corrected the unsaid phrase 'dirty work' with a careful sharpness of tone. The look on his face indicated he meant it as a self-recrimination. I _volunteered_, so quit feeling guilty.

"I told you once I knew something of Daedric magicka, and put it aside to become a priest?" He prefaced.

I nodded. "I remember."

Martin leaned on the battlement before continuing.

I'm not sure I want to hear this. Not because it's an unpleasant truth, but because…I don't _care_ what he used to be, or who he used to be, or that he made mistakes. I simply accept he's changed. Who am I to bring up old crap?

"As a young man I grew impatient with Mages' Guild restrictions, as did others among my fellow apprentices. So we threw ourselves into the riddles of Daedric magicka, hungering for forbidden secrets. Knowledge and power were our gods, and we were faithful devotees to those gods." He stopped.

"And in came Sanguine." I filled in.

"You can guess the rest," Martin pressed on, "We got in over our heads. People died…" he swallowed hard. Reaching over, I gripped his shoulder, as he had gripped nine not so long ago. Despite that I mean this only as a gesture of reassurance or comfort, I can't help notice there's a very nice, solid shoulder under his shirt.

"My friends died. I've put those days behind me. Still, the bitter wisdom that one has been a fool is not completely without value. So, now you know the truth…or most of it."

"I don't begrudge you the details," I mumbled automatically, trying to think of something to say. Preferably something comforting. So I simply clapped him on the shoulder again. "No one's perfect. You learned. You changed. I accept that."

A smile tugged at Martin's mouth. "A little," he agreed. Still, he looked relieved to hear it, even…pleased.

I smirked too – I can read something into that sentence, but I'm not sure I want to, just in case I'm wrong…

You haven't been thinking Sanguine thoughts about me, have you? I didn't blush, but I did have to fight to keep my grin from spreading. "Martin?" The amount of innocence in my tone could have charmed baby birds out of their nests. Fortunately for the birds, that's not what I'm out to do.

"Yes?"

Still forcing myself not to grin – or leer as the case may be – I looked out over the steep drop. "You weren't _really _a Sanguinite were you?" I asked, very quietly, turning to watch his expression.

What I noticed was the creep of dull red around his neck. However when he looked at me his expression answered my question completely, the expression I imagine will couple with an attempt to make me blush (not difficult).

My stomach wobbled. What was I thinking?

Some of my surprise and uncertainty must have shown, because the look vanished, he straightened and cleared his throat, business like. "Are you sure you wish to use the Sanguine Rose?" He asked, instead of answering my question. "Opening the door to Paradise will most likely destroy it. It may be many years before it manifest in our world again," he countered with logic.

"Yes, I'm sure I want to use it," I answered as neutrally as possible. I've had my fun, I won't cross the line into bullshit. It was enough to put a toe across – I've learned my lesson. Still, that was an interesting look. That treacherous part of my brain would love to have heard whatever rejoinder he came up with.

Martin smiled at me, as though he wasn't quite sure where he stood, or even if where he stood counted as solid ground. "To obtain it, and then give it up...I honor your dedication to our cause." He inclined his head slightly.

I chuckled and tapped his elbow, still feeling a little wobbly around the stomach. "It's early. Let's get some breakfast, I'm starving." Questions is, will I actually be able to eat?

"Then I expect I'll be spending the morning outside," Martin responded sedately.

I grinned at him. "Well, it's not like I can take you down to Bruma for a Guildhall get-together. One, I'm not longer part of the guild, and two…"

"Jauffre would die." Martin finished, seizing upon the mostly innocent subject.

"I'll bet you were a card shark too." I added.

And, as if to answer my earlier challenge about his stint as a Sanguinite, Martin smirked at me, a look that would make ladies more experienced than myself feel pleasantly unnerved. "Among other things." Then he chuckled, more like what I'm used to hearing, and shook his head as if to say 'too easy'.

You know – I shouldn't play games like this. I'm no good at it.

However, as we walked back towards the great hall, Martin's hand settled companionably on my shoulder.

--A--


	49. Chapter 49

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Forty-Nine

--A--

Silence filled Jauffre's office as he, Martin and I scowled – though not at each other. In fact, to an outside observer it probably looks like we're making a genuine effort not to scowl at each other. Caro, standing to my left, shifted uncomfortably, as Jauffre's eyes shifted back and forth again, reading the missive on his desk over Martin's shoulder. Of all of us, Martin was the only one sitting down, ensconced behind Jauffre's desk with Jauffre hovering at his shoulder. Caro stood almost to attention, but I leaned comfortably on the back of one of the chair facing the desk.

Never was much for rigid decorum, and as Martin's never discouraged this, I choose to assume he doesn't care.

Delivered by messenger hawk from Bruma, the tidings were ill, though unsurprising. The newest Gate looming near the city blazed brightly, easily visible form Cloud Ruler Temple's lofty vantage point, hence Captain Burd's call for help. Sent in care of Jauffre, but requesting me.

"I've got a better idea," Jauffre inserted into the thick silence, the wake of an aloud reading of the missive. "We'll send Ailirah, as Burd requests. But you," he pointed a gnarled finger at me, "will take a team of our people with you – train them as well as Burd's men. I suspect we may need more than one person experienced with these Gates before the end." Jauffre concluded.

Brilliant plan – and I'm not feeling the slightest bit sarcastic. It'll take a lot of pressure off me, though no pressure of conscience. I've regretted promising to keep away from the Gates without good reason ever since I made it. "And you shouldn't send anyone by themselves to begin with. Teams of two work well enough." I put in. I've done it alone before – better to work as part of a team. You know, if Martin fiddles with that quill too much more it's going to…snap. What'd I say?

"What do you think, your highness?" Jauffre asked, looking over at Martin.

"I suppose we shall do what we must," Martin responded, his tone carefully measured. "Though, I notice no one's asked this expedition's guide how she feels about the matter," he glanced up at me, as if he half wanted me to protest my going, to cite my promise and say something about honorably upholding my word.

But, I have to admit, as resigned as he looks he knows I won't do it. I won't back down from responsibility, and Burd did ask for me. What can I do? Tell him I was scared, or it was an uncomfortable thing? It's not like I plan to do three or four, or even two in a row. I've learned my lesson about that.

I can't say I'm not uncomfortable doing it, but I won't back down. It's not my style. "Like you said, we'll do what we must. It'll be more effective if I go, but of course I'll defer, with regards to my promise if you insist." I forced my expression blank, wondering if he was going to be silly about this and try to protect me.

My concern proved needless. Martin shook his head as if dismissing this, as if he knew making me stay put would chafe. I couldn't stop a soft breath of relief – I don't need protection. A shoulder to lean on? Sometimes. Someone to patch me up if I get hurt? Sure. But protection – no, I can do that for myself. I'm glad he sees that…squishing a surge of fond-feeling for Martin, I forced my attention to focus where it needs to be. "Send a team – six of your best. Three teams of two." Martin's words hit the air like stone shitting a pond, though he hadn't spoken very loudly.

"I'm hoping that includes Caro," I put in.

"We can do that," Jauffre answered. "I'll have the team prepare."

"Tell them to bring canteens, if they can't cast ice spells," I warned. "It gets pretty hot in there."

Jauffre waved – I might have told him this before, I don't remember – leaving the door ajar behind him.

Looking back at Martin I found him studying me. "I don't like it," he announced without preamble.

I'm glad he's willing to tell me so. "Neither do I, to tell you the truth. But," I shrugged, "what else can I do?" With regards to my conscience, of course.

Shaking his head, Martin ran a hand through his hair with a heavy sigh. "Good question. I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you yet." Martin got to his feet, leaning heavily on the desk. "Please be careful. For you, there will be permanent damage every time you do this."

"I understand. I'll be very careful." Shifting slightly, I scuffed the ground with the toe of my boot. "Thanks."

"For sending you into danger?" Martin asked sardonically.

"For trusting me to be able to deal with it." I corrected. For not trying to insulate me against the world. I'd call him sweet…except the word does not now, nor has it ever really fit him.

"Yes," Martin mused. "I suppose that would matter a great deal. It's a lesson your brothers could stand to learn, is it not?" I could tell by the way he worded the sentence, so carefully, he was really saying 'your bothers are assholes, what the hell's their problem?'. Though probably, he wouldn't say it so colorfully.

"They're just a little over-protective. It didn't used to be so bad – I let a habit become a bad habit and didn't realize it," I shrugged. It's true, I might have felt a little resentful from time to time before getting myself involved with the Blades, but it's not until that point I earnestly did anything about it. You don't rebel too hard against all you know.

"Why don't they trust you?" Martin finally asked, when it became obvious he was going to have to ask me, before I discussed the issue.

I walked over to the door and nudged it closed. "It's more that they don't trust the rest of the world. And yes, there is a difference between fighting humans and fighting monsters, at least according to them. My parents are a little more moderate about this." I responded with a shrug.

"I'm curious."

I thoughtfully chewed a fingernail – most people leave it at that and don't ask anymore about it. Considering for moment I shrugged, not sure what if anything to read into the curiosity, but deciding I'd better satisfy it in this case. How many times have _I _asked personal questions and gotten answers? "Well, you shared. There's a bit of an age gap between my brothers and I – I was kind of a surprise," we both shared a grin. So was Martin, though to quite in the same way, I'm sure. "When I was six, we were out playing. I'd tagged along, with my brothers and a couple of their friends. They didn't really want me there – you know how boys can be about their little sisters…or can imagine, I'm sure." I appended, remembering Martin was raised as an only child. "We were up on these ruins outside Leyawiin and got into an argument. I wanted to be a part of their adventures, their world. Rogerik got angry. He gave me a push and told me to get lost, turned and stomped off, expecting me to just _do_ it."

I looked away from Martin's darkening expression. Kids don't know any better. "What can I say? We were kids, I was stubborn…not like I am now, though." With a grin Martin didn't return, I started leaning on the chair again. "I tried to follow, yelling at him. I was angry, and tired of being treated like a pest, like I was no good at anything. Markos said something, agreeing with Roge that I ought to get lost. They didn't need me. They didn't want me. Hurtful things – the kind that sink deep when you're just six. Roge pushed me again, but this time I tripped." With a shrug I started to pace. I dislike telling the story, but the truth is, I sometimes think it accounts for some of my quirks in personality.

"I didn't just fall on my backside this time. I stumbled right over the steep edge of the ruin. They tell me I must have hit my head, I don't remember. I woke up two weeks later in the care of the healers of Dibella's chapel. That was when they got paranoid, convinced that the world was going to hurt me…because _they_, my own family, had. It wasn't so bad at first, we became really tight knit – I got what I wanted, too. To be _included_. They got silly when I got old enough to date. I don't know if that's because they don't trust my judgment in character…" Or if they just wanted to make sure I got the right guy the first time around or if they're just jealous of being my keepers…or maybe they learned to not want to share. I've got a lot of theories, but never asked.

"It explains a lot," Martin said, his tone actually bemused. Looking up I found him giving me one of those very benign-sympathetic looks.

I shook my head. "Yeah well. Now you know why my brain is scrambled. I love them to death," I added defensively. "I'm just…_tired_. And…now I'm just being pathetic." I concluded with a sigh.

"Not pathetic. Not hardly," Martin said, though in my current frame of mind, I'm inclined to suspect he's humoring me.

"Do they teach your that at clerics school – how to get people to spill their guts?" I asked, trying to sound cocky, and managing it only half-way.

"Among other things," Martin responded.

"So now you know the sordid tale." And oddly enough, I don't mind him knowing. I prefer his reaction to others – some people don't know what say or do, and get all worked up. It's in the past, _my_ past – there's nothing they can do except accept that's the way thing sure. I have.

"Strange run the unseen workings...the good and the bad." Martin announced, though more to himself in deep contemplation, than as part of our conversation. It sounds like something a priest would say, in fact, I'm reasonably sure I've heard it before. This made me look up – last I heard he was having some serious issues with the Nine, issues I'm not trained to help with. Still…at least he sounds hopeful, I hate to use the term 'better'.

"Philosophically one might argue we have to have bad things happen, so we can appreciate the good ones." I declared, more to keep the conversation alive than because it's a deep thought.

"Who said that?" Martin asked.

"My brother Brutus." I answered.

"Now which one is he?" I don't think I've ever declared the order of age for my brothers.

"Brutus is the eldest. Then it's Julius, Markos, Roge and me." Brutus and Jules are actually only ten months apart – parents were newlyweds, you know. "You know…it might be beneficial to have them here, when the enemy tries to raze Bruma. I know my brothers – they could make the Dremora quake in their boots. If you think I'm tough, I learned it from somewhere." And my brothers are _big_ enough to use that toughness to great effect.

"I'll pass that along to Jauffre – I suspect we'll need all the help we can get." Martin cocked his head. "You don't feel bad, volunteering them like that?"

"Are you kidding? They'd kick my ass for not inviting them to the party…though, I doubt if _I_ said it, they'd believe me." I added in irritation. "We'd better ask Jauffre or someone else to ask the Guild to get involved. Still – the more manpower the better, I say," I announced.

"You'd better go get ready." Martin said abruptly.

I raised my hand, grinning as the spell in my ring shifted, my armor materializing, the weight settling familiarly over my shoulders. Come to think of it, this coat of mail is pretty damaged. It's still in working order, but it's beginning to show the wear. "I'm always ready," I announced cockily.

There was, I realized, a certain vaguely wicked quality to the grins we both wore, as if we both read things into the statements. Grinning I waved at him, a gesture he returned. At least I'm not blushing…

Though I still wonder…I'll bet he's a good kisser, too…not that I know anything about that thanks to my erstwhile thick-as-boxes-of-rocks brothers.

This is _not_ the time to think about this sort of thing. I'm preparing to enter Oblivion again. I need my wits about me.

--A--

The bodies of scamps and clannfear lay scattered about, showing Burd and his men had kept them pushed back. "You brought quite a team," Burd noted as my six Blades and I arrived at the Gate – I think he said it more to keep himself from gaping.

"Yes. We need as many people as possible trained to do this," I answered, eyeing the Gate like I would eye a Dremora I'm ready to engage. Even twenty feet back I felt like I was breathing in small amounts of pepper, which stung my sinuses and the back of my throat. My eyes, too, felt a little warm, and I'm sure they're glittering ruby-red. However, I also feel unaccountably…_strong_. I don't know much about Dremora, but I'd say I begin to feel…Dremora-ish, I suppose. Beginning to seethe, ready for a fight, cold nipping sharply at my exposed skin. I know the Gates can't change me _into_ a Dremora…but if the attitude fits.

Burd shifted, so I looked over at him. "I'd like to address your men prior to entering the Gate, if I may. Just a basic outline of the plan." Once Burd nodded, I looked over at his men. They showed varying signs of nervousness, though the augmentation by a half-dozen Blades looked like it had their moral up. "Normally I wouldn't recommend such a large group, but as this is a training mission I don't see we have much of a choice." I began, then ran down what to expect. "When we get to the top of the Spire, remember don't touch the Sigil Stone unless I tell you to. We don't want anyone getting left behind. Dremora _eat_ human flesh – and I'm not sure they care whether dinner's still kicking or not."

"Well? Did you hear her or not?" Burd snapped when I got a mumbled response. With his voice acting like a whip, the men immediately and audibly answered. I honestly think, right now, the Gate has more of their attention than I do. "Good. Let's go," he addressed me.

I waved my hand and Frostreaver appeared in it. "Let's go," I repeated back, feeling strange, but otherwise confident. Larger numbers can do that.

Walking through the Gate into the arms of Oblivion was like slipping into an overly hot bath. While the others complained for a moment, or gave off exclamations of surprise at the hostile environment, I found it didn't bother me as much as it had previously. I still felt as though I was inhaling something spicier than air, but the heat didn't seem to swelter so badly. However, I'm forewarned – I may not feel the immediate affects as strongly, but the lasting effects I undoubtedly will.

"You feeling okay?" Caro asked quietly, under the soft babble as I gave the men a moment to take in their surroundings. Better they gape here where it's relatively safe than when I need them paying attention. I wonder where all the scamps and clannfear are? Usually there're small packs or swarms running about, scavenging for food or causing other mischief.

"Yeah, I feel okay," I answered calmly, my resolution to do what needed doing and get it over with firmly in place, for now repressing any unusual surges of emotion. I doubt this kind of forced-focus will last, but best enjoy it while I can.

"You look awful." Caro chuckled. "Like you're about to take the jump off Dive Rock."

I smirked at Caro. "I'm sure I'll look worse before this is over. Still, if I get bitchy, feel free to let me know."

"I will. Damn, I'm starting to feel sorry for the Dremora," Caro shook her head.

"It won't last." I responded with a grin. "Come on." Clapping her on the shoulder I looked over at Burd. "Nice place, isn't it?" I asked loudly, to get his attention.

Burd left off glaring at his surroundings, disinclined to joke about them as Caro and I did. I suppose since we've both seen it before, there's less shock value to it. "That's where we're heading?" he pointed with his sword towards one of the towers.

I eyed it, then shook my head, scanning the cluster of black spires. "No, the one with the green light. Over there," Burd's men clustered in closer, as did the Blades as I indicated our destination. "All right, you'll be doing this in twos. Captain, if you'd stick with me," dividing the Blades and guardsman – I actually coupled them, one of Burd's men, one of the Blades both to make it easier for me to keep count at a quick glance and to make sure no one got left behind later, if we didn't make a clean exit.

We started forward, boots raising small puffs of dust as we walked.

Still no clannfear, nor any sign of scamps. They're waiting for us. This Gate wasn't an accident. It's an invitation. Eyeing the tower I smiled – does he know his Razor is missing? Did he think I'd be dumb enough to bring it with me? I suppose some evidence might make him think so.

But no. Not this time. It's safe in my footlocker of personal effects, back in Cloud Ruler Temple. Feeling smug and slightly superior that I caught myself before making the mistake of bringing the Razor back into its home plane, I began to wonder what the next step in opening a door to Paradise required.

I hope Mehrunes Dagon is sweating sling-stones, trying to figure out what our sneaky plans are. It'll be a taste of his own medicine.

--A--


	50. Chapter 50

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Fifty

--A--

Sitting on the iron steps up to the Sigillum Sanguis' upper levels might have made me look both cocksure and lazy, to the average individual. I simply feel it's a much better plan to let Burd's men, and the Blades, do the Dremora-bashing themselves, once I was sure the fight was fairly balanced. Rather than letting me go on a rampage - which is what I really feel want to do right now.

Like a wild creature wounds an animal, and then brings it to her young, so they may learn to hunt, and learn the taste of fresh meat without fear of that meat escaping.

And the Dremora were too busy with the near-dozen other humans to worry about me on the stairs, though, I began to feel a sort of pity for them. They're doomed, yet they fight on as if they could do something about their lot. Of course, unlike mean and mer, they will return from the waters of Oblivion, sooner or later. But still – they're soldiers.

I clipped this through at the bud before it crossed the line from rueful admiration of a worthy foe's determination into something that might cause me more unease. I know I can't turn into a Dremora…but I don't want to leave myself open to thinking like one. Just in case.

"You know," Caro landed, lumbering over to me, twisting her sword-arm about as if to relax stiffened muscles, "you could have helped."

As I smiled at her, I saw the familiar flicker of unease as I got to my feet. "Why? You were doing just fine on your own. And I've sent my fair share of these lads back to the waters. Besides," I added, looking at the other member of the Watch – for they were not as accepting of their environment as the Blades, with the possible exception of Captain Burd, who was old enough, grey enough and tough enough to ignore the nastiness and keep him mind on business.

Captain Burd came lumbering over, his face alight form the fight and from victory.

"Well? What do you think?" I asked, weaving to the Sigillum.

"Not a place I'd go on holiday," Burd responded rather jovially.

I know what he reminds me of – Einar. Not in any physical way, for Burd is no more than in his mid-forties, but in the attitude. My father once told a brother about making war – how the old men who are unafraid of death should be near the younger men, who have more to live for. Einar doesn't – so I've heard – fear death. But coming home was like coming back to life.

Then he turned to the forge in peacetime, and never looked back, save to give council.

"The Sigillum Sanguis always looks the same, no matter what Tower is stormed," I announced, as though lecturing. Waving the others to follow me, I led them up to the pinnacle of the tower's levels, where the sigil stone burned brightly. "We don't know the exact rules for people involved in closing a Gate, but we know there is some kind of distance limitation for those who should return to Nirn."

Like the members of the Kvatch city watch. The memory did not produce as much pain and self recrimination for not bringing them out alive as it had done previously, and yet the memory was not truly dead. Merely a twinge of deep thought to surface, then submerge once again, a small reminder only of lives lost in a war no one realized had burst upon us.

Or rather, the war with side effects and tendrils stretching out so as to find purchase beyond our sight.

My temper sparked and flared as I walked up to the sigil stone, eying it with a growing feeling of malevolence. What wouldn't I give to strike hard at Mehrunes Dagon? To drop-kick his plans and show him why you don't put Tamriel's people under threat of conquest. "And so, the accepted practice is to keep hold on your partner, so as not to leave anyone behind. As I've said, Dremora think flesh of the mortal realms quite the delicacy. So form up and we'll be out of this hole."

Caro's hand, balled in a fist, gently tapped my shoulder, the equivalent of a reassuring squeeze, which I wouldn't feel through my chainmail. I nodded once, to show her I recognized the gesture. Within moments everyone had affirmed they were ready to return. "Well, take it." I addressed Burd.

"You sure?" he asked.

"I've got several already. I don't need any more." In fact, I don't even know what I'm to do with them, now I've got them. I can feel magicka in them, but it's Daedric magicka – not the sort of stuff most mages can utilize. I suppose there's an innate affinity to certain sorts of uses, I simply haven't the time or the mood to find out what those may be.

Probably, Sigil stones would imbibe great power into a weapon…but I don't want Frostreaver tainted by such a thing. It's bad enough Oblivion rubs off on me, which accounts for my present gloom and seething bubble of anger.

Burd reached out and hesitantly took the stone, marveling how it did not burn him.

I closed my eyes as everything began to swirl and wind began to toss about the room, the cries of the others adding to the meaningless noise.

--A--

For the first time, I returned to Nirn and kept my feet. This time, instead of getting thrown on my back, I felt as though I'd simply taken a step down off a stair, though my companions were in varying states of disarray and sprawling on the turf, though Burd was the closest to standing, having fallen to one knee.

The air pressed cold against me, making me sweat as I realized why I hadn't felt so uncomfortable in Oblivion – my body temperature had risen. I wonder, if I continue this way, if I shall steam when I wind up overheated in a chilly environment.

"Up you get," I announced blandly, grabbing Caro by the arm and hauling her to her feet.

"Wow…you never said that it was like _that_," Caro muttered, looking skyward, as one who's just fallen a great distance and can't quite believe it.

"It thought you'd be more concerned with things inside the Gate…not coming out of it." I shrugged.

One of the guards laughed. "You walk away you win, right?" he asked, grinning, though the shadows of the Deadlands' harsh environs still hung over his face.

"Precisely. Now, remember – you'll feel a little cranky. I advise you strongly to try and cap it - cold water helps. Peppermint and bayberry scents help. Give it a few hours and you'll be starving – Captain, you may want to put your gate crew up for extra rations," I detailed.

Jauffre already knows all this.

The Blades and I walked back to Bruma with the City Watch, then turned out feet towards Cloud Ruler Temple. No one talked much, not even Caro, as we all felt both surly and tired – though I perhaps less so. I simply felt grumpy, and wanted nothing more than a cold bath to leech away the feel of Oblivion's fires burning in my very skin. If someone were to check, I'm sure I'd feel fevered to the touch – my eyeballs burn behind my lids, if that's any indication.

"You're strutting." Caro grunted from my elbow.

Looking over at her, I arched my eyebrows. "I suppose I am." I announced. Honestly, I hadn't noticed it before.

Caro smirked, a faintly red gleam in her eyes. "How's it feel, being the biggest bully in the place?"

"I'm not. Neither bully, nor the biggest." I retorted, unstung. Checking myself, wow. I _am_ swaggering, like the cat who ate the songbird, and is under suspicion but not under the weight of proof. Smug. Smirking I shrugged. "So what do you think?"

Caro grimaced. "I think I need a bath."

I nodded. We all do, and not just to wash the dirt, muck and grime off. However, I have an odd presentiment that life is about to throw me another basketful of trouble to deal with. I hope they hold off until morning.

--A--

I still hadn't lost my self-confident swagger, nor had the side effects of Oblivion worn off fully by the time we reached Cloud Ruler Temple again after a long, silent march. Martin and Jauffre were entering the courtyard as I brought up the rear of the herd of Blades before me, eyes peeled for any sign of the trouble I expected to come my way.

Blinking away the bright lights hazing the edge of my vision when I looked at Martin, I waved. That's got to be something to do with his Dragonblood – it's the only thing that makes sense. You know I could take him out _right now_ and no one would be able to…

Damn Oblivion Gates. I don't want to kill him…not for the first time something in the back of my brain snickered suggestively, and elbowed the forepart of thought. I stifled that too, but still, when I realized Martin's attention was on me, even as he made perfunctory remarks to the rest of the crew (most of whom grunted and nodded back to him, rather than risk showing any hostility), my heart gave a little flip-flop and wobble.

I could justify this by virtue of the fact I'm his go-to girl for anything dangerous needing doing…but it's not a pleasant justification, when hopes are so much nicer.

"You look tired," was Martin's greeting. I noticed he took particular care not to stand too close, but not to look like he was avoiding me. It's sweet he thinks about not causing me any discomfort, because he certainly isn't out of arm's reach.

"A little – but it's either a nap, or something constructive to do." I stretched until the full length of my spine crackled and popped, then did the same for my neck and knuckles. "Mmm. 'Scuse me." I muttered, remembering belatedly that some people find the popping sounds of someone else's spine absolutely disgusting.

Jauffre is one of them, and he grimaced now with distaste at the chorus erupting from my bones.

"I take it this was an easy mission?" came Martin's indulgent inquiry.

You know, I'm pretty sure he knows or suspects I'm feeling pretty smug-confident. Hell, it probably shows. I grinned for him. "Yeah, weight of numbers takes a lot of the danger out of it. They'll be fine in their own little teams, I'm sure. Caro gave them hell – I don't think the Dremora will ever want to see her again." I added with a chuckle. They probably think she's my sister or something – she hits pretty hard when she wants to. And she doesn't like Dremora. Or maybe they were just convenient targets for her Oblivion-bolstered anger and aggression. One would think we were all hellcats and raging bulls or something.

"We need to have a meeting," Jauffre announced, pulling Martin and I to business, when it became apparent we were both content to stick with small talk. I think the fact I'm back and not in a towering temper, or trying to hide the fact that I'm upset is refreshing for Martin. I should try and come back smug more often…

But business is business, and it comes first, so with a sigh I nodded. "Okay. Can this wait until I've had a bath?" Well, I expected trouble, and I said I wanted something constructive to do. Looks like I'm learning to read subtleties better than I ever thought I could.

"I..." Jauffre began.

"Certainly," Martin cut him off. For a moment I thought I caught a sparkle in his eyes, but it was gone when I blinked. "Take your time."

Nodding my thanks – are you having Sanguinite thoughts about me? – I felt my skin heat up a little further, though fortunately I don't think the change is noticeable in my present condition.

Martin's voice drifted after me as I followed the path of the others towards the baths. "Look at her – she's still shrugging off the Gate. She won't be able to concentrate on the matters at hand."

"Are you certain?" Jauffre asked. "She looked quite composed."

Smirking I nodded – I'm not _that_ good an actress, am I? I didn't hear Martin's answer, though I'd have liked to. Looking back over my shoulder I found Martin watching my progress. Even at this distance, I could make out the wink he gave me, to which I smirked before winking back, and continuing on my way.

You know, I intended to take a very cold bath originally. Now I want to take a very cold _soak _and see if I can't get the side effects to lessen enough for me to focus on what I need to do, rather than what I _want _to do.

Bloody rampages for no reason other than 'I can' are not on the agenda. Trying to play Sanguinite games are out too, even if I still have some trouble visualizing Martin as one. I can't tell if this line of thought is just doubt, a pervading isolation I didn't realize I was dealing with, or just something being in Oblivion brought forward to make my life in the usual plane troublesome.

Aside from which, Martin's right – right now I feel extremely single-minded. Bring out the enemies or let me pull myself back together.

Still, that glimmer I saw for that fleeting second didn't look exactly innocent to _me_. And even the barest possibility he sees me as more than a warrior with a sword is encouraging. Even if I know nothing should come of it – because sooner or later his new reality will set in.

But this is now, and right now anything that lightens my mood, however whimsical, is a welcome thought.

For a moment the memory of a dream made the skin on one shoulder prickle at the phantom-memory of warm breath against it.

Damn these Gates – they foul up my head and mire my thoughts. I'm going to put that on Mehrunes Dagon's bill – and it's a bill in intend to collect upon. And so, thinking of all sorts of terrible, unlikely, improbably and possibly _impossible_ things I'd like to do in the direction of beating the Daedra to a blood pulp. It's nice to have someone to blame and to heap abuse upon, even if I might be a little more shrewd in my words should I ever meet him face to face.

Forget that – Frostreaver, as my new silent partner, can speak loudly enough for both of us…

…that doesn't even make sense.

--A--

I wasn't the only woman in the bathhouse, but fortunately all the others were also on the Gate Crew, so we didn't feel the need to chatter, and I didn't need to feel isolated, left out, or uncomfortable in talks. We wanted t be left _alone_ to shrug off any remaining effects of the Gate.

I drew my bath, using a weak-level ice spell to chill the water. Lucky mages - they can just melt and heat a bath in seconds.

Leaning against the sturdy washtub, I caught my reflection in the water's surface, then turned abruptly, still wearing my chemise and trousers, to examine myself properly in the mirrors hung along part of the same wall in which the door stood. I wasn't the only one. Erina gave herself a dark look and grimaced, turning in her heel and walking over to one of the other tubs.

Up until now, I haven't really taken the time to see the effect Oblivion's had on me. I know about the red eyes, and the sort of 'otherness', but hadn't actually seen it. My face is still a little red and patchy, like I've overheated, and the eyes…they don't glow, but they're noticeably, vibrantly red. Dunmer eyes, almost, which looks quite terrible with my hair. I've also lost some of the roundness of face, the cheekbones standing out more sharply the jaw looking a little more angular. It's like current events are whittling me down to something tougher than my favorite fruit jerky.

Damn – I could go for some of that just now. Or something with chocolate in it. Or on it. Or with it, like a sauce – I'm not picky. That wimpy part of me – the part that just want to do her job and be good at it – suggested half-heartedly I simply go to Elsweyr and harvest the beans myself.

But that would be stupid. I don't know the first thing about candy-making. And I could never justify that kind of holiday right now. It's irresponsible.

Hesitantly I touched my reflection, then poked my face, as if somehow the mirror was playing tricks on me. It isn't, but when I smirked at my own foolishness…the smile proved to be my own. The quiet in the brightly-lit room is good for thinking – usually you only get that sort of quiet thought-provoking sense if you're lucky enough to have the bath to yourself for a bit.

Fetching a fresh bar of soap, I broke open the parchment wrapping, letting the smell of bayberry snake its way into my nostrils, taking deep breaths of the scent. It's such a clean smell. It's a safe smell.

And one which conjures up memories. Despite the fact bayberry is the standard scent of soap around here – possibly _because_ it smells clean – it's a smell I associate first and foremost with Martin. The memory dredged up this time was of a priest comforting a crying girl.

Unwilling to let myself get distracted any further, I undressed quickly and threw myself into the bath. I shivered, for a moment, struggling to breathe as the cold slammed against me, buffeting mind and body and leeching away warmth. Yes, I'm fond of him – very fond of him, and his company. I know he's fond of me – though perhaps not the way I'd like him to be. I somehow doubt he's so shallow, but I know better than to ignore the possibility. Or maybe it's brother-induced paranoia.

Still, I'm pretty sure this isn't just a crush, or infatuation – not on my end, anyway. Namely because he's seen the same side of me people close to me see – not a side I generally show to strangers, or people I don't trust beyond the usual limits. And it's not that I think about him all the time…but when I do, it makes me happy.

Well, cold water's good for _that_ too.

--A--


	51. Chapter 51

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Fifty-One

--A--

Jauffre's 'meeting' told me a lot the moment I walked in, just by the people present. Baurus, Martin, Jauffre, and several other Blades I recognized as fairly high up in the ranks – including Captain Steffan. "I take it this has something to do with our Gate to Paradise," I announced once I'd closed the door. No need to beat around the bush, after all.

"It does," Martin answered, breaking straight to the crux of the matter. "It may even prove our plan's undoing."

"How so?" Jauffre asked as I took to leaning on a wall, watching Martin closely. In my previous preoccupation I hadn't noticed the tiredness behind his expression, the weary worry, and the silent hope that someone might be able to pull an answer, a solution out of thin air.

"The Gate to Paradise is based on a very delicate balance of major artifacts of power. Ailirah has provided one such artifact already – blood of the Daedra." And when only Jauffre and I seemed to understand what he meant, Martin clarified. "A Daedric artifact."

Baurus scowled, probably remembering the cloth-wrapped artifact. Steffan wasn't so reserved. "You brought one of those things here? Which one?" He demanded, frowning at me. "Those things are dangerous…" he began, though whether addressing my indiscretion, my not telling him, or to Jauffre out of concern for security, I don't know.

"Ailirah did as I asked her. It doesn't matter to me, or to you which artifact she brought back. Put your mind at rest, Captain, that it is not as foully evil as the Mysterium Xarxes, and is kept under equally strong protections. There is no threat from it, at the moment." Martin interrupted firmly.

A nasty silence fell – it was apparently Steffan still wasn't happy about this new bit of news, but he was well-disciplined enough not to argue with Martin, and eventually grunted, "Yes, Your Highness," and fell into stony silence.

"And you need the opposite of the blood of the Daedra?" I frowned. Opposite of Daedra would be…well, the Nine, I suppose. But unlike the Daedra, they don't have any artifacts – none that I'm aware of. Unless you count the Amulet of Kings, which we can't get and…and Martin himself…

My eyes flashed. "You do realize that we need _you_ in one piece. Do you know how much blood something like that would require?" I asked, made sharp by concern. I don't know for certain either, but I'll bet it's not just a pinprick on the finger.

"You've bled often enough for the cause," Martin responded quietly. "Does it trouble you so much when someone else must?"

"Yes." I bit my lip until it bled, wincing. There's no 'must' to it! I know he'll put holes in my argument of 'your blood's a little more precious than mine', so I saved my breath. "You didn't answer the other question."

"That's because I don't know, exactly. Martin answered, unperturbed.

"Then you can bet it'll take more than just a pinprick, Martin." I argued, ignoring the looks I got from those aside from Baurus and Jauffre.

Jauffre at least, looked grateful to have an ally in this matter, and I suspect more and more he's tried to argue Martin out of this idea already. Maybe that's why I'm here – because I _will_ argue.

"I will do what I must," Martin said very simply, with a piercing look in my direction. I balled my fists, gearing up for an argument I couldn't win, because it sounds suspiciously familiar. Martin gave me a rather gentle look. "I'm afraid you won't win this argument, Ailirah."

"Want to bet? I'm not finished…" but he's right. And I hate it that he's _right_. "I don't accept that's the only way. What if it takes more than you reckon? What if it's a little more sinister than that? I've heard nasty things about rituals that use actual blood – most of the time the donor gives far more than he anticipates," I added.

"I've considered the danger, but that's not why we're here." Martin responded calmly. To my relief he didn't ask 'oh, so you're a mage now?'. "I appreciate the concern," I swallowed, willing my cheeks not to show the blush threatening to rise at the remark, "but we are here to discuss…"

"There's another way," Baurus put in, to my relief. Looking over at him gratefully, I found his expression still stony, not liking this other alternative either.

Jauffre looked at him sharply. "No…no." He shook his head. "It's a fool's errand. Too long has it steeped in darkness – it will swallow up all whom we send and we cannot afford to lose anyone else."

"You'd rather he did it himself?" Baurus asked. "Ailirah's no mage, and neither am I. But blood rituals usually come back to bite people…I trust his highness has considered that possibility." Baurus added with a stern look at the back of Martin's head.

"I have…" Martin began.

"So what's this other plan?" I cut in. See? I can with this argument by simply throwing it out and starting a new one. Looking over at Martin I couldn't help but smirk a little.

And he gave me a look that clearly told me this was no win – it was simply the gong for round two. I didn't grin further, but I would like to – I like a challenge. The fact I won't want him slitting his wrists in some Daedric Gate-raising rite quite aside. See? It doesn't even sound safe, and while I appreciate his willingness to take one for the team…it's not really a great idea, with regards to long-term goals.

See? I _do_ listen.

"Sancre Tor," Baurus murmured almost reverently, crossing his arms and hunching. Despite the reverence his expression indicated this was a step below 'suicide mission'.

"Sancre Tor? What's Sancre Tor?" I jumped at the possibility, dismissing the expressions of doom and gloom from which only Martin and I were exempt. We exchanged a look of shared non-comprehension, and I shrugged.

However, seeing how Jauffre and Baurus both looked little ill, to say nothing of the chalky pallor falling on the faces in the room. Well, that doesn't leave much room for imagination. Age may be catching up with Jauffre, but Baurus, Steffan and the others…they're still hale and hearty. And I do wonder what it would take to make so many brave men quail.

"Sancre Tor used to be a…a sort of pilgrimage site of the Blades. A holy place you could say, where the Armor of Tiber Septim, who alter ascended to become Talos is interred." Baurus answered.

Oh dammit!

Martin closed his eyes.

So Sancre Tor is crypt, reliquary and shrine all in one.

A massive sacred dungeon. Well, I'm not there to loot the place, so I doubt anyone will try and brand me as a grave-robber (and I'm not) and I _am_ going. I've done crypt-recoveries before. They're usually full of moldy, smelly things. Not enough to worry me, really.

"It was lost to us a many lifetimes ago," Jauffre said, his withered lips pursed, eyes cast towards some corner of his desk. "Haunted and infested – we finally had to let it go when the death toll of the Blades who visited, or tried to reclaim it became too high. We haven't tried in more years than I can count. Centuries. It's every bit as risky as Martin's proposition – perhaps more so. It's suicide."

Martin and I exchanged looks, and I knew he would much prefer putting himself out for this one, rather than letting the Blades risk their livee. Arguably he could protect himself, ward himself with some confidence…but not total. Plus, this is what we do in the first place. And I for one, would rather scrub dishes for the duration of this adventure than back down from one creep, scary, icky crypt.

Which puts us in the same boat, really. I can't admit to total confidence either, whatever brave front I put on for everyone else's benefit. I'm good, but too many ghosts against one person are too many ghosts against one person. I've got limits, and it sounds like Sancre Tor is one of those places where evil things fester and multiply if allowed to take root.

Still, his plan…_n'chow_. There aren't enough rude ways to call this plan a bad one. I don't like your plan, Martin. I _really _don't like your plan!

"The plan is to send you, Ailirah, as you're our expert at artifact recovery." Jauffre announced, looking at his hands. "I think we can trust you to bring the armor of Tiber Septim back to us. Even if Sancre Tor falls back into darkness, it should not take the relic with it." Looking up his expression conveyed he didn't _want _to send _anyone_, but his priority was the life and safety of his liege-lord.

How rare to find us standing on the same side of the fence, with the same point of view.

Aside from which, I would hate to make a place like Sancre Tor my permanent residence. It sounds _really_ creepy – I know, I understate it on purpose. "Frostreaver is sufficient to damage any kind of undead. And I'm used to fighting them…even if ghosts and the ethereal types are a pain in the ass." I announced. Ghosts are one of my least-favorite forms of undead. "Still…" shaking my head I let the sentence hang. I foresee a very _slimy _dungeon dive ahead of me – never mind that ectoplasm gets crusty when it's not cleaned off in a reasonable amount of time, which is icky. I can live with dirt, but crusty ectoplasm is where I draw the line.

It's simply disgusting.

"I won't allow you to go alone," Martin announced calmly, his face set and determined.

I'm surprised – he didn't outright forbid it, but he'd effectively given a command to the Blades in the room, which Jauffre – willing or no – would enforce out of loyalty.

A brilliant move – quite apart from the fact I'd love to take a team with me. If this place is half as bad as it sounds. I'll bet Mankar Camoran seeded the nastiness in the first place, to cut off anyone seeking to enter his realm without his permission. Okay – _maybe_ I'm giving him too much credit for causing trouble. Okay, all right, no 'maybe' about it. Still, the fact is, I don't like the guy, and I'd _like_ to meet him, simply for the sake of introducing him to my boot-tread.

I gave Martin a grateful if somewhat discreet smile. Despite whatever his original intent was, and my internal monologue, I'm glad _someone_ picked up that I don't want to do this alone, before I had to make a big announcement about my reservations. And with a sentence like that, no one's going to contradict him. Teamwork: gets the job done.

"If anyone goes," Martin continued, "they go as part of a team. Five men or more. If any fewer volunteer, we do it my way." He was looking hard at me – mostly because I'm the one who will squawk the loudest, not having the discipline or reserve of my elder more mature fellow Blades. Yep - I'm the yappy one. Oh well.

"Tsch…" I hissed, seeking to break up the stalemate and throw a high hand in the game Martin and I were playing under the noses of the other Blades. Martin looked over at me, and I wiggled my shoulders slightly. I'm not a guy with a rack, you know, even if I am tough. One hundred percent _woman_, right here.

But you've certainly already realized that. Hehe.

"You know what I meant," Martin responded benignly, looking as though he was trying very hard not to smirk. You know – there's something a little _too_ serene and benign about that expression that makes me want to grin nervously. I didn't, but it wasn't for lack of effort. Do I even want to know what's going on behind his benign expression?

"If I can recommend, don't send any of the Gate Crew to Sancre Tor – it's not good policy to put all our eggs in one basket." Baurus suggested. "Or let them volunteer. Caro would want to go."

That's true – Caro and I work well together. But I agree. "I could take Rols – he's dying to be useful. He'd volunteer in a heartbeat," I announced. Especially since he didn't make the Gate Crew.

"I'll consider it," Jauffre declared calmly. The meeting dispersed not long after this, but I hung around, even after Martin left. "Yes, Ailirah?" Jauffre inquired.

"I was thinking – with the Mythic Dawn planning an attack on Bruma...we're going to need extra muscle." I wasn't sure how to present this idea to Jauffre, but I really should do it through proper chain of command.

Jauffre looked up, a silent invitation for me to carry on.

"May I make a recommendation?" He nodded once. "Send a message to Leyawiin. My parents and brothers will come if the Blades ask them. To defend the city – they don't need to know about the rest." Cruel perhaps, but my brothers are stand-up citizens. If Bruma is threatened with the same devastation as Kvatch, they'll show up to stop it. They won't need anything else, even if they might _want_ the whole story.

"But not if you ask?" Jauffre asked, arching his eyebrows.

"They won't believe me, Jauffre…my brothers and I are on kind of…well, things are kind of patchy right now," I admitted with difficulty. "Just think about it: Einar may be a forge master now, but he's a juggernaut in a fight – all the men in my family are. They've been our unofficial auxiliary Gate Crew for weeks now. They know how to fight Dremora – I saw Roge doing it. Just a thought." With this, I withdrew, planning to pull my things together, pending the trip to Sancre Tor. 'Never say no to more help than you've already got.' This last I mumbled, one of Jules' maxims, after he became Guildmaster.

Don't think about Jules. He's not on the shitlist he's just...an _ass_. Come on, knock it off. Focus on something you _can_ fix. Like Sancre Tor.

I'll get the volunteers. If Martin was serious about not allowing the trip, he'd have set the number higher. There're enough people who want to do _something_ to get out of the walls of the temple complex, and to strike at the Mythic Dawn, even if it be something as simple as retrieving an artifact, or part of an artifact. Whether the Mythic Dawna actually comes into it or not is up for debate. But I suppose 'strike out' at them means _anything _that might foul their plans later.

Jauffre will probably let me know in a few hours, as soon as word's circulated.

One might wonder why not take the easy way…I just get a very nasty feeling it won't go the way we plan. It's because Mehrunes Dagon is the Prince of Change – and he'll change the rules if he can, if it suits him to do so. He may already have set up something like this, knowing we'd try.

Which means Mankar Camoran probably knows we're coming, sooner or later. The question is, does he trust is defenses to stand up to trouble?

And what other crazy-rare artifacts are we going to need?

--A--

Jauffre called me in three hours later. I'd gotten my volunteers, Martin wasn't happy about it, but he hadn't resisted the issue further. "He's loathe to put anyone into needless danger." Jauffre remarked as I eyed the list of names.

"He's a good man. Of course he doesn't like the idea," I answered. "But I don't trust the rules to conform to expectation. This is Mehrunes Dagon we're dealing with, after all."

Jauffre nodded. "I agree. Do you believe in coincidence?" Jauffre asked unexpectedly.

I looked up. "You know about the Sanguine Rose, then." No need to play coy, I suppose.

"You weren't exactly discreet about it – though those who know, know enough not to carry tales too far." Jauffre answered. "I take it from that question you know more than I thought you might."

Looking at Jauffre I bit my lip. He wasn't looking at me, rather, he sat hunched tiredly behind his desk. I wanted to ask why the Blades would have let Martin join up with the Sanguinites, but couldn't think of a way to make it sound less accusatory than 'how could you?'. "Why not steer him somewhere safer?" I asked finally.

Jauffre sighed again. "Not one of our shining moments. No one ever expected all this," he waved. "No one ever expected he would ever be the last of his line."

"So he is?" I have to admit, I had wondered every so often, since learning about Sanguine, whether there might not be any...you know. Accidents running around. I hate to say it but the practicality is, a contingency is a contingency. Still, he hasn't answered my question.

"Martin is the very last." Jauffre answered firmly. "And as far as his…"

"...let's call it a folly of youth." It's a gentle enough euphemism. I could be harsher, but what would be the point? It's done, it's over with. He's moved on, and I accept that. Apart from that, I like who he is now.

"Fair enough," Jauffre nodded. "We were to remain discreet in our watching – but he was no longer a child when it happened. Sanguine is a creature of self gratification. Therein rests the appeal, I'm sure." Jauffre began to pick at a mark on his desk.

I remembered Martin's description of himself at the time. Yes, I suppose I could see the appeal. I'm just too selfish, I suppose, to ever walk that road – I hate to share.

"I'll admit, I was…surprised when I received the initial report, but what could I do? Steer him away? We tried – but you certainly know how headstrong he can be. To tell you the truth, I thought we'd come up against a brick wall, until Baurus mentioned Sancre Tor."

"So that's why I was there. Because you knew I'd be the only one without the discipline to accept his plans gracefully." There was no accusation, just a grim humor. It's true, a good use of resources.

Jauffre looked up. "Hardly. I put much store in the things those of the Dragonblood See. Uriel Saw you. Martin Saw you. Both Saw you as a central part of this whole affair," he waved. "I've seen what you've done up until now. Creature of fate or not, you get results. And you do so with without killing yourself."

I nodded – I actually _like_ that reason better than the conclusion I jumped to. "So, about Sanguine. He said he used to have the Rose…"

"You didn't wonder why he didn't die, along with his friends?" Jauffre asked gently.

Looking up I saw him watching me with mild interest. I nodded, glad he'd picked up that the past was past – for the most part. "Ye…no. Not really."

"He was rescued. Injured, and taken to the nearest Chapel. From there he went on to serve Akatosh, as a sort of penance He's remained there ever since, until you brought him to us."

"Does he know?" I asked quietly. "Why he survived, I mean."

"He does now. We would have saved the others, but he was our priority." Jauffre answered. "And action was taken accordingly."

"I'm not blaming you." I answered. Standing up I looked back at the list. "With your leave, I'll start gathering the men and the gear. We'll leave at dawn tomorrow. There's no point in trying to do it tonight."

Jauffre nodded. "Do be very careful, Ailirah. Sancre Tor is an evil place. I fear so far corrupt the only option left, if it were possible, would be to raze it."

So be exquisitely careful, Ailirah. He may have the place filled with additional guards." Jauffre warned.

"I'll keep the team careful." And if we run into the Mythic Dawn – either by coincidence or because Camoran's figured out what we're doing? Unlikely, but we'd better plan for contingencies...well. He's got to run out of cultists, sooner or later. I don't mind hacking my way through them, to speed thing up. I know several people who'd back me in such a plan. Still much as I would love to do it, prudence hopes we're still operating either undetected, or ignored, as far as out master plans go.

--A--


	52. Chapter 52

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Fifty-Two

--A--

My team and I awoke early, with plans to leave just after dawn. Between the eating of a hearty breakfast, the packing up of gear and the prospect of renting horses in Bruma no one talked much. Rols and Captain Steffan were both going, and stood ready to leave within ten minutes of the call to prepare for departure. The rest of us weren't so desperately eager to get started.

Apart from which, I did want to say goodbye to Martin, instead of slipping out quietly, as though I had something to hide. I found him kneeling before the altar in the small chapel, somewhat to my surprise. However, I was brought up not to interrupt this sort of thing, so I turned to go.

Not quite as softly as I meant to, because as I moved back towards the door Martin sighed. "A moment, if you would."

Turning I waited as Martin got to his feet and waved a hand, producing a crystal bottle, with its seal on a thin chain. He walked towards me, a little stiffly, as though he'd knelt there for some time prior to my appearance. "When you find the armor, scrape as much of the blood off into this as you can. Blades are as picky as priests it seems, when it comes to the relics of Tiber Septim…" His expression crinkled. There was resignation there, and acceptance, but no sign he was going to try to talk me out of this, for which I was grateful. I'd much rather leave on good terms and come back to cheerful greetings.

I took the bottle, slipping it into a pouch on my belt. "I liberated this from the workroom," I announced, holding up a small tool for scraping rust, which I was keeping in my personal gear, not in my backpack. "It should do the job without harming the armor." Putting it back in its place amongst my gear I grinned up at Martin. "It's quite a team Jauffre's putting together, you know. If it kills us…" I added jauntily.

"Don't joke like that," Martin winced, his expression pained. "It's not funny."

Taken aback by his expression, I wished I'd just kept my big mouth shut. "No, I suppose it's not." I half-heartedly reached up, catching my fingers on his sleeve. "With the kinds of skilled people Jauffre's sending, I doubt very much we'll all get ourselves killed." I responded practically, knowing how much fact can do to quell excess concern. "It's okay – you wouldn't let him send me alone…I'm kind of glad, to tell you the truth. This Sancre Tor place sounds a little more dangerous than the usual big scary dungeon."

"If it's kept the Blades out of it for so long, I suspect it must be." Martin declared quietly. For a moment uncomfortable silence hovered, then he leaned forward.

My brains inner works came screaming to a halt as simply shock struck me statue-still. I held my ground, both startled and at a loss for what to do. However, he must have noticed because he stopped, then put a hand on my shoulder, kissing my cheek. "Be careful." His warm breath tickled my cheek, bringing my heart into my throat, and gooseflesh to my skin, which was thankfully covered in armor and the necessary gear and underpinnings.

I nodded mutely. If it wouldn't have inconvenienced my parents, I'd wish _eight_ more little sisters on my lunk-headed brothers. Then at least one of us might have learned something useful in the area of…of what, exactly? Swallowing I reached up and gave his hand a squeeze, feeling torn between wishing I had a little more experience, ignoring the fact he's probably got enough for both of us, and wondering if I should kiss him back (my lips started to tingle) and second guessing myself.

I'm gutless. I sucked my bottom lip in, and wondered since when did I become a coward?

"And come back safely." Martin continued.

"I…will." I managed, looking up at him, oddly aware of our height difference. "I will, I promise," I repeated with more certainty, clapping his shoulder firmly.

I shifted a little uncomfortably, then chewed on my bottom lip again. Martin gave me a forced sort of smile – this is really awkward, and it's mostly my fault. I take back the wish for eight sisters. I wish for eight sisters and _boyfriends_ for _all_ of them to keep my nosey, overprotective brothers busy. Put their stress levels through the _roof _for the sake of _my_ inconvenience and inexperience. "I don't break promises, Martin. Just…remember to look after yourself while I'm gone, huh? Practice with the sword…"

I'm making this worse. Here I realized my hand, which I'd extended to tug his sleeve earlier had never returned to my side. In fact, it had slipped up his arm, now resting just above his elbow. For a moment I leaned forward slightly, then uncertainty, or some sort of obscure fear mastered me and I stepped back, clenching my jaw.

"I will. Ailirah, I…" Martin started, reaching up to take my arm, the way I held his.

I let go, retracting my hand so I could wring one with the other. Just kiss me Martin. I swear I won't pull away, or tell you to let me go…

"Ailirah!" Jauffre's voice cut through the air, but I held my ground without answering, waiting for Martin to say whatever he needed to say. Whatever it was remained unspoken, for Martin glanced towards the door, then let go of my arm.

"I've got to go." I managed to say, but my voice wavered oddly. "Take care of yourself," I admonished one more time, before hurrying out, pulling my cloak on, unwilling to tolerate my sensitivity to cold anymore than I had to.

Does anyone else here smell chicken?

"Is everything all right?" Jauffre asked when I caught up to him.

"Oh, yeah," I shook myself. Distractions, I don't need them. For one moment, when he'd first leaned towards me, I'd been so sure he was going to kiss me…not the chaste on the cheek one might give a sister, or dear friend, but something a little more personal. And for a moment as I'd stood there, shocked and stupid, I'd wanted that. Something deep in my core that wanted something more than dreams, or a comrade in arms. Arms might eventually come into to it, if hope prevailed, but not those of a comrade. "Martin's just worried." I answered blandly. "He doesn't like this plan very much."

And here's what _I_ don't like: I can fight rampaging Daedra, look Oblivion Gates in the mouth and just waltz right in…but I can't bring myself to kiss the man I like…if that's even the right word anymore. I should have just left this morning, without saying goodbye. When I get back…I don't even want to think about it. The world's not known for giving second chances.

Jauffre nodded. "He worries over-much," Jauffre announced, breaking my dark musing like a rock thrown into a still pool.

I stopped walking, giving Jauffre a glare that might freeze water, retorting before I really considered what he'd said, and what he probably meant. "No," I answered firmly. "He remembers that I'm still _human_. Excuse me."

With that I swept forward, feeling both disgusted with Jauffre, and the weight of Martin's worry, and my own lack of courage. It wasn't as if Martin was some sort of Dremora, and I _froze_.

Irritation flared and I seized upon it, glad of something to be angry about, that didn't double back to land squarely on my shoulders. How dare the old geezer say something like that? It's one thing for me to say 'yes I can do it', because I've already worked on the implications of failure, or thought up something to counter problems which might occur. It's quite another to look at someone and – in effect – say 'you're a hero, you'll get it done', like it's nothing at all.

I'm not running down to Bruma for more soap, Jauffre. This is serious.

"Are you all right?" Rols asked when I stormed into the midst of the Blades ready to travel.

"Fine," I growled back. "Let's just go - we've got a long way."

No one asked any more questions, but let me stew and worry in silence, my mood coloring the air around me.

--A--

Sancre Tor lay north and east of Chorrol. If I was along on the mission, I might even have stopped to see Uncle Modryn, but as it was, I didn't. My funk of self-recrimination lasted all the way from Bruma, along what Steffan referred to as the Unmarked Road, to the camp we set just south of Sancre Tor itself.

And when I say camp, I mean a proper camp, with tents and a fire and the whole quiver full. We even had one Blade who would stay behind to mind the horses and the camp and who could carry the tale of our failure, should such a necessity occur. Over a late lunch, Captain Steffan produced a ragged piece of parchment, which he carefully unrolled. Peering over it, it took a moment to realize these were the builder's drafts, evidently preserved in some forgotten archive.

"Well," I grunted, "At least we won't be diving blind."

"No indeed – the place was sealed centuries ago, you need a key." Steffan said. "There are quite a few levels, or halls of Sancre Tor. It used to be a fully-functioning outpost, until it fell away," Steffan continued to detail. "The rumors we have indicate ghosts, but brace for nastier things."

I took the map. Unlike Aylied ruins, the layout was fairly straightforward – the sign of human minds. "This here…what is it?" I pointed to the diagram for a room, like an octopus viewed sprawling from above.

"It's…" he squinted at the spidery writing. I don't recognize the letters or the words – they're not the commonly used language of these modern days. "…they call it an entry hall, but it looks more like a central hall. Might be my mistranslation." Steffan finally answered after more squinting and frowning.

"That's where we should make our first priority. Look, see how it branches off? It's reminiscent of how Cloud Ruler Temple's built – you can access almost anywhere by returning to the great hall."

"Why not just go after the armor first?" one of the others asked.

"Do you know where it is? Because I don't." I grunted. "No, we should make getting to the central point our priority – we can get a feel for what all is down there, and plan further once we've got accessibility to the place."

"But like you said, we don't know where the armor is – what if it's not in an obvious place?" Steffan asked.

"The place used to be a shrine," I argued, waving a hand dismissively as I expounded logic aloud, more to myself than to anyone else. When you've done artifact recovery as long as I have, you start to notice patterns if you sit and think about it for a little while. "I'll bet it's at the deepest, darkest, most secure level. If the armor has any enchantments, strong enchantments, we can count on finding the most ghosts near it. They like magicka, and they wouldn't want a major source of it going anywhere…don't count on complacency, ghosts don't reckon time like we do. They tend to be too single minded.

"And we'll probably have to go through this thing and solve some kind of ingenious lock, the keys to which are probably scattered so plan on being down there for most of the day. We may need to come back up, but if we carry water, provisions and bedrolls we should be all right. I don't worry about whether the sun's up or down so long as there isn't a covey of vampires down there…but if they are, you can bet they're starving…and I can't see them letting themselves get bottled up. Stupid vampires tend not to live too long…according to Uncle Modryn…" I flipped a page gently, so as not to damage the parchment, scrounging up everything I ever learned firsthand or otherwise about ghosts. Crusty ectoplasm notwithstanding, ghosts make fierce opponents even to the well-prepared. It's mostly a sort of disorientation when your weapon causes damage to a thing, but still cuts through it like soft cheese. And Frostreaver's enchantments won't help – ghosts are usually immune to those.

"It's not an Aylied ruin, but even the old builders liked to copy Aylied ideas. It'll be somewhere easy to seal…unless it was moved. But somehow, I don't think so. Ghosts can interact only partially with our world…" I looked up to find everyone gaping at me. "I did do this for a living, for many years," I noted darkly, wishing for a crew I knew a little better. Unfortunately, most of my closer acquaintances were either on Martin's security detail, or on the Gate Crew.

After a little more planning, the crew broke up, to reorganize and lighten the gear we carried. Sancre Tor wasn't as large as Sundercliff Watch, but a larger group attracts more attention than one slip of a girl skulking inexpertly in the shadows. Rations of food and water, bedrolls, a few of us packing small medical packs. It's unlikely we'll need all of them, as several of the Blades here studied the school of restoration, but all the same, you never know when you'll need a more mundane way to patch someone up.

I, myself, am glad to have something serious to demand all my attention, so I can shove my troubles into a trunk and lock it up for the time being. It's a skill I've cultivated under the watchful instruction of my brothers, and believe me – in this line of work, you do _not_ want to go into a hostile place like this distracted.

Shouldering my pack I readjusted the straps, so it rode higher on my shoulders than it would otherwise, then took it off, summoned Frostreaver and my armor, then readjusted the pack so it fit snugly, and to make sure it didn't impede my movements.

A healthy apprehension began to tingle beneath my skin as those of us not staying to watch the camp headed for the massive doors to Sancre Tor's ruinous upper level. As we drew closer, Steffan and I in the lead, I could feel malevolence sloughing from the stones like nowhere else I ever encountered. It made my skin clammy, and I couldn't help but notice more keenly than ever the distasteful feel of Mehrunes' Razor in my boot.

Raising a hand as Steffan fumbled for the key to the doors I conjured my magelight, forcing it to turn deep red. This shade doesn't hurt the eyes the way a blue light would, and won't interfere with anyone else's nighteye spells. "Is that wise?" Steffan asked, glancing at the light hovering above my head.

"They're ghosts. There's no such thing as a lasting element of surprise." I answered simply. It's true – killing a ghost isn't like killing a mortal creature. Even assassins can't just slip up behind a ghost, _shhhkt_, and move on.

In answer to this logic, and Steffan's shrug, the red light increased as several of the others conjured similar lights of varying strength and size.

The rusty lock on the doors groaned as Steffan turned the key, before the locks released. Looking up above the door I could see a worn plate, indicating this place was sealed centuries ago by a Grandmaster whose name had faded out, weathered away by time and the elements.

"Block the door open." I announced simply as Stefan and I both took hold of the rings on the doors and pulled back – I wound up needing help to get my door open. The doors blocked, we proceeded into the receding darkness, the smell of bone-dust, mold, rot and dank must coiling about our nostrils and running clammy, imagined fingers along our spines.

"This is an evil place," someone towards the back murmured.

We were warned. "If you can't go on, fall back. You're a volunteer." And with that I started forward, Frostreaver at the ready, looking for any hint up ahead of the luminous figure of a ghost.

"Do I even want to know what it takes to scare her?" Someone demanded of Steffan.

"Probably not. Come on."

Shaking my head I moved slowly so Steffan and his gaggle of Blades could catch up, for the first time feeling oddly distanced from the others. Before I felt like part of the team. Now…I feel simply attached to the team…but not really a part of it.

This is the last time I make an open offer for volunteers. Next time, I want to pick my team myself. It decreases this sense of dislocation. I stopped. "Look sharp!" I barked, seconds before a resonant 'boom' and a flying spell gouged into the stone hallway just shy of my feet, just as the shimmering visage of a ghost in tattered robes became luminously apparent.

Ignoring the stone shards spattering across my face and armor I bounded forward, catching the apparition at an angle, slicing clean through it, sending a sickening spatter of ectoplasm to the floor, dripping off Frostreaver in glowing gelatinous globs. Turning I found Steffan halfway through a slash himself, as the ghost flailed. Steffan grunted as he parried the ghost's blow.

The narrow corridor didn't allow for more than two or three of us to flight in a cluster, but with the ghost busy warding Steffan off with its sword, it couldn't counter me, as I sheared it across the back form shoulder to tattered bottom edges, sending more ectoplasm onto the floor and wall. This time, however, in the wake of the strike ectoplasm began to drip to the floor, the unclean tang of the ghost's core substance began to fill the hallway.

It turned sharply, and I parried as Steffan thrust his sword through its middle and wrenched the weapon upwards. Were the thing alive, it would have died there, a sword cleaving its head in two.

I threw the sword off, metal scraping and then clanging as the ghost reeled, the sword striking a wall, but preventing the ghost itself from passing _though_ said wall. I gave a shout and a final swing. The ghost howled, but the damage was done. Ectoplasm spattered from the wound across Steffan and I, before the ghost seemed to melt into one giant puddle of smelly ectoplasm, which crawled towards our boots, as if determined to make some last difficulty.

Frowning at the ectoplasm I looked at Steffan. "It shouldn't be that strong. There's something malevolent down here. And they're _feeding_ on it." I announced coldly, reaching up to wipe ectoplasm from my face, only to find it was on my hands as well.

Oh well, it's not poisonous, just quite disgusting.

"Malevolent? Like what?" Steffan asked.

"I don't know. This is a Blades' place. The history isn't my forte. But there's something else down here, more than just angry ghosts guarding a powerful relic."

"Any theories?" Someone pressed, having moved closer.

"Tortured souls can do it. Powerful undead, sealed away, festering in their own dark misery. I heard a tale once of a lich sealed in a holy place – it corroded him as he tainted it, and they eventually collapsed in ruin together. But that was a tale told around a campfire, in order to frighten the listeners." I shook my head. "We'll just have to go see, and introduce ourselves."

Despite himself Steffan smiled. "You want to go first?" His tone indicated he was teasing, that he didn't mean for me to feel obligated. No one really wants to go first, in places like this. Even me – but I'll do it. Technically, it's still _my_ mission, so I'm duty-bound to take point.

"No, but I will. No sense the rest of you getting all mucked up," I gave my hand a shake, dislodging globs of ectoplasm to land on the floor. Already their glow began to diminish. "I'm going to have to burn these clothes," I grunted, starting forward, but with a grim smile.

Yeah, I bitch a lot. But that's a specialist's privilege. We enjoy bitching to ourselves, all the while feeling smug and gratified. Or, at least, focused.

--A--

--Author's notes appended--

This is something I learned from real-world observation. Those with an affinity/talent/training for something start out all 'gung ho, way to go' and about halfway through start to swear loudly and vehemently (and _very _creatively in some cases) at the project, and bitch about just about everything. Then the thing works and it's like they were never miffed a day in their lives. (Yeah – I've done it too. )


	53. Chapter 53

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Fifty-Three

--A--

"Do you…see that?" Steffan asked, gaping as he stood over one of our injured.

Standing several feet in front of him, covering in crusting ectoplasm, I nodded. How do you miss it? The apparition – and I mean apparition as opposed to weak-constitution ghost – nearly killed one of our men before anyone realized what was happening, for it attacked the middle of our troop, rather than at the fore.

Now, however, instead of its ectoplasmic body hung on bones of malice dripping into a gooey puddle, it seemed to be shaking, sloughing off ectoplasm like a dog shakes off water. Then it stopped, bobbing slightly above a pile of goo. The apparition had sloughed off its initial appearance like a snake sloughs its skin, for no longer was I facing a creature in a shroud, but an Imperial in uncomfortably familiar-looking armor.

The ghost's eyes blazed but it said nothing, did nothing, merely turned gracefully and drifted away. No aura of malice, no parting shots. Turning I found Steffan overseeing the healing of our injured companion. "Do you know why there's an undead Blade down here?" I asked quietly, trying not to sound accusatory. I'm more surprised than anything else – I was expecting a lich, or some kind of greater skeletal undead, or even – at the bottom of the list – a very stupid elder vampire.

Not an undead Blade.

Never mind the rule of thumb actually made sense of this situation – bad people make bad ghosts. Good people make really bad ghosts, and are the more powerful for it, _especially_ if betrayal played a role in their deaths. Their spirits tend to rot and fester worst of all, giving them power and the will to use it.

I suppose I have my answer about what's making the ghosts here so damn tough – tormented souls, shot with corruption. I didn't realize what we were fighting at first, though perhaps I should have. The katana lying on the ground in the puddle of ectoplasm is a big clue – but it was a little more concerned about keeping said sword from finding lodging somewhere vital to my continued existence.

Or anybody else's.

"Up you get," Steffan hauled his newly-healed Blade to his feet. "You think that's the reason the ghosts are so tough?" Steffan asked, frowning.

Considering this fight and the last several – the reason we all have an ectoplasmic crusting. I simply had the misfortune to be in the line of spatter when Olaf hammered the last one with his mace. Reaching up to scratch crusting ectoplasm off my skin I shook my head. "No. Just part of it. But you didn't answer my question – why's he down here?" Though I think I can make several guess.

Someone wasn't careful about the retreat, meaning someone, or several someones got left behind. Which would account for the tormented, twisted souls, if they felt they were abandoned or betrayed. "I don't know – I never heard anyone got left behind," Steffan said. "But apparently…" he waved. The proof may just be unassailable.

"We'll worry about it later – according to your maps that round central room is just up ahead. Let's get there before anything else catches up with us." It's hard fighting with a lot of people in a small space, when Frostreaver is your weapon of choice. You've got to be careful not to lop something off someone by accident – though one would think they'd know enough not to crowd in.

The smell of the air began to change as we drew near the main hall, growing heavy with mold and mildew, and mushrooms. I recognize mushrooms from trips into Morrowind. They like mushrooms out there – and cultivate some of the biggest ones I've ever seen in my life. I felt, my first time there, like I'd gotten shrunk somehow.

The reason for all the moisture in the air – as well as the generally unclean things growing around here – became apparent quickly. The term 'entrance hall' on the parchment maps was a euphemism. It looks more like a defensive post with too many doors. Deep cisterns punctuated the large round room. I suspect, given the water stains on the walls, the stonework of the ceiling isn't as good now as it was hundreds of years ago, so water's been creeping in. Give it long enough, depending on the stonework lining the cisterns, and this place may just disappear forever, erased by unseen water.

Or maybe not – I just clear dungeons out, I don't study the effects time and the natural world have on them. Ask Tar-Meena, she'll know who's got those kinds of answers.

"Don't touch the water," someone mumbled uncomfortable. "You never know what's in there."

I eyed one of the cisterns – yeah, it could probably lodge something, if there's a supply of food around here somewhere, or it doesn't need to eat as often as most creatures. But not something too big, unless the cistern goes very deep, and the stonework we're standing on is more like a bridge than an actually floor. It's a possibility I suppose – an _unpleasant _possibility, and shivers ran along my skin at the thought. I hate swimming in deep water…you never know what's down there, ready to nibble on your toes. "Like Auregos' water dragon," I muttered thoughtfully, heading into the center of the room.

"The _what_?" Steffan frowned.

"My ancestor Auregos, on Einar's side," I answered. "He tracked and later landed the killing blow on the water-beast that was marauding the Skyrim coasts. It was big, ugly, breathed fire and had scales – so even if it didn't _fly _they decided it was a dragon," I answered. "It surfaced after a town was founded too close to its nest…or so the old stories go. Up until then, there was no reason for it, and the native people to come to blows."

Silence greeted this, then one of the Redguards spoke up – Cavick, I think his name is. "Or the Yokudan Belhyda," he put in.

I grinned. I know that story. Both endings.

"Who?" One of the others looked nervously at Cavick, who grinned, his teeth showing up brilliantly against his darker skin, even in the red magelights.

"Belhyda was a sea-witch, living deep under the fathoms." First of all, you have to understand what he means by 'witch', because it's not the same definition as used in Cyrodiil. The Yokudan word is 'wysha' or 'whyshe' when referring to a man, and the word tends to convey a similar meaning to 'shaman' than its Cyrodiilic translation may indicate.

Also, they do tend to represent the darker aspects of natural magicka, though they tend to advance their own agendas, which usually are inscrutable to the average individual. Therein lies the misconception they're 'evil'. "Years and years she lurked, until her realm was unsettled by an unwary ship, escaped from a great storm."

I tuned out- he's telling the sugar-coated version. You see, there are two accounts of Belhyda. One in which she took offense to the weighing of the ship in her cove, and punished the sailors cruelly. The other says the sailors took advantage of her hospitality, abusing her home and the resources she guarded. When she eventually showed up in person to demand restitution for the havoc they caused, and to demand they leave her in peace things got nasty, and she wound up sinking their ship. Two men survived – hence why there are two tales. One who vilified her as an evil sea-witch, the other whom Belhyda herself saved, for he alone showed respect for the rights of the creature who lived in the cove first.

By the time I tuned back into the story – Cavick surprised me, for he'd actually blended the two tales together into something remarkably plausible (I agree that there was error on both sides, but hindsight is much clearer than any event as it happens.) Speaking of as it happens – while someone dredged up a tale of Elsweyr which, unlike Belhyda's and Auregos' stories is entirely fictional – I sidled over to Steffan.

"I can't believe you got them started trading ghost stories," he grunted.

"It's okay – I want to reorganize things a bit, before we press on." I answered. "I want to get out of here, but if there are any more cursed Blades, I want to do something about them. Or, I should say, for them."

Steffan nodded, raising no objection. He's the sort of leader who hates to leave a man behind. Apparently, he's not going to argue their undead status as a case for leaving them again. "How's this work?"

"Have you ever hunted ghosts before?" I asked.

He scowled, mistaking my intent. "Yes."

"I only mean, are you familiar with the basics of ghosts. How they have to have their will to stay severed before they can be dispatched? Or, in the case of those less-violent spirits, how they have to purge whatever is changing them into violent spirits?"

"Oh, yes." He nodded.

"The Blade we fought was very strong – stronger than a normal ghost. He's been down here a long time, festering on whatever prevented him from following his Guides." It's a widespread belief that no one finds their way into the Hereafter alone. You either have a pair of guides, who walk with you to whatever paradise lies beyond…or a single guide, who will take you to your just reward.

The theory is popular because it helps explain how come some people end up as ghosts, which are certainly real enough. Ghosts, for whatever reason, refuse to be guided, and that's why they're lost. Unable to let go of life, they remain to haunt the place of their death. Some can range, but most are as trapped by their locale as they are by their anger, or sense of guilt, betrayal, whatever's binding them.

Ghost hunting for rookies. Moving on.

"The ghosts here feed off the malevolence of stronger spirits," I continued aloud. "They should weaken a little, as we free up the stronger ones. However, when a ghost is dispersed, it should truly disperse – and yet, the Blade we freed _didn't_ – you saw him. He just wandered off. So either he's rooted here with necromancy – they can do things like that, supposedly – or he's got a task to fulfill." Or, possibly, wishes to help us fulfill our task, since we released him from his torment.

"You know…a long time ago, there was an expedition made to retrieve the armor. Since it's one of our relics," Steffan murmured.

"And did anyone come back from that expedition?" I asked, frowning.

Steffan looked uncomfortable. "Yeah – that's why we stopped sending them, and let the Grandmaster's mandate this place should stay sealed and undisturbed stand unquestioned. This was years and years ago late during Pelagius' reign – you know. Tiber Septim's son." Steffan shook his head. It's a good thing he gave me a timeframe for these events. Obscure history – and almost anything involving the Blades is obscure at best – is not my strong point.

"You know the implications are either they died here with their quest unfinished, and were duty-bound enough to stay to try to complete it from beyond the Veil," laudable, but wholly futile, "or they were left when their comrades retreated."

Steffan nodded. Either scenario could produce a powerful ghost – frustration at the inability to complete one's task, or anger at getting left behind. I must admit, I hope it's not the latter, but it's also the one that sounds most likely. The ghosts with a job to do are, in my opinion, more rare than those rooted with anger. You can only give so much to a cause, and once you've given your life…you can't do much, once you can float through walls.

Unless you mean to scare people away.

"Split up?" Steffan asked.

"Huh? No!" I answered quickly. "No, no. Uh-uh." No, that's a bad idea, particularly as vicious as these ghosts are. "We should stick together. Speaking of which," turning to the talking Blades I cleared my throat audibly. "Oi – we're planning the next move."

--A--

I love dungeon diving, but I hate getting covered in ectoplasm. Dirt is fine – I've always got dirt under my nails, when I haven't bitten them down to the quick. Dust and cobwebs? Cobwebs are good for binding injuries, so the old healers say – I can't figure how they find _enough_ to do it, but that's what they say, and dirt never hurt anyone, unless it makes you sneeze at the wrong moment. Stepping in mud – mud's just wet dirt, it won't hurt you.

But ectoplasm is _gross._ I'm going to have to burn my clothes when I get out of here – _all_ of them. I don't want to think about how much scouring I'll have to do to get this crap out of my chainmail.

Fortunately for us, no one else got seriously hurt, past the usual amount of wear and tear that goes on in a dungeon. One ambush makes trespassers like us as wary as wild turkey, and much more coordinated. All told, in the sprawl of Sancre Tor's passages we dispersed countless ghosts and wraiths – countless because people started padding their counts once the blighters wound up a little easier to defeat.

Oh, and five total Blades – one of whom Steffan thought might have been killed here _before _it was sealed, and had probably helped corrupt the four left or killed here on the ill-fated expedition before ours. By the time we reached the last chamber – process of elimination proving the armor we sought was not in any of the other rooms we cleared – we were all hot, tired, and smelled strongly of ectoplasm.

The discomfiture rubs me wrong, and more so than usual, making my temper burn beneath the effort to keep myself calm and collected. Then again, fighting ghosts is good for working off that excess temper.

This last room is actually a vault, with a high ceiling, long and fairly narrow. It reminds me vaguely of Weynon Priory, but not in any way I can define. Trooping in two abreast, the ghostly Blades stood at regular intervals up the vault. I thought I saw a shimmer in the air, but by the time I reached it, there was nothing to block our progress, and the ghostly Blades watched silently, staring unblinking at us and raising the hair on our necks.

At least, they raised the hair on mine.

At the end of the walk, on the stairs to the dais leading up to the plinth upon which the armor presumably rested – I can't see it at this angle, and if it's not there, I'm going to rearrange the stonework down here – the fifth ghost, the one Steffan deemed contemporary with the original seal, barred the way.

Steffan stepped forward. "Warden," he began, a little uncertainly, but not willing to walk through the ghost. "We come on behalf of Grandmaster Jauffre, and the Septim heir apparent to recover and reclaim the armor of our lord, Tiber Septim."

The ghost didn't move, or speak, and Steffan shifted uncomfortably. It wants proof. My hand strayed to my chainmail, beneath which the little amulet Martin gave me, with his blessing on it rested. I couldn't finger it and began to wonder if I shouldn't just pull it out and wave it in front of the Warden, or something.

It's creepy – no sooner had the thought of the amulet passed through my mind, and my hand touched the armor above it then the Warden's unseeing eyes turned towards me – along with his head. He drifted _through_ Steffan - sliming him in the process, so Steffan swore very loudly – and stopped short of me. I slowly reached to pull the amulet free, wondering if the ghost would recognize the touch of its liege-lord (and wondering _how_ it could do such a thing) when the Warden reached forward, poking one finger against where the amulet rested, just below my collar bones.

His finger didn't move through me, in fact it was as if it were solid, for it left no fresh ectoplasm on my armor. Not that it does me much good _now_, but I suppose I should be a little more grateful. Looking up at the glowing specter I licked my lips. I suppose it _could _count as a token of the emperor. But to me it's both less and more than that. "He needs is back. It's important." My voice came out very low, my vocal cords not working properly. It's a new thing for me to need to talk to a ghost.

The Warden then stepped back, nodded, and bowed stiffly. He straightened and then stepped past me, walking up the vault, the ghostly blades following in line. As they went through the entrance they gradually dimmed and then were no more.

"What was that?" Steffan asked.

I was absently flaking ectoplasm off my armor, near where the amulet lay against my skin. "I'm not sure. After all…I don't look like a Blade, now do I? Maybe they weren't sure if I wasn't some kind of marauder."

I'd rather not share the detail of the little amulet. I don't want people drawing conclusions or making up gossip. Bored Blades chatter like magpies. Swinging my pack off my shoulders, I knelt, opening the catches. "Come on – if we're going to move the armor, we're going to do it right," pulling out hanks of fabric, I thrust them at those standing nearest to me, followed by the necessary cords and clips.

Getting to my feet, I trotted up the stairs, to find the armor lying on the plinth – though only the cuirass. And dark against the aging metal was dry, crusted blood. Producing the phial Martin gave me, and the tool I liberated from the workroom I began to laboriously scrap the blood off in little flakes, careful not to mar the armor, to leave gouges. Aged metal can be finicky, and I don't think Jauffre will be very happy if I bring this back looking like I left it out in a sandstorm.

The blood-scraping took time, since I determined to get as much of it as possible, not knowing how much Martin would actually need. I really hope he doesn't have to resort to his original plan…

Damn – not enough distractions and my last dilemma comes right back to the fore…it's going to be an awkward homecoming. And somehow, bearing the gift of blood doesn't sound like a proper apology for acting like a little chicken.

Finally satisfied I got as much of the blood as I could off the armor, I capped the flask and put it back in my gear. If Steffan didn't like this, he didn't say anything as I gave direction to the others as to how we were going to protect the armor for transport, swathing it in layer after layer of protective cloth, then the thick blanket one of the others carried for that exact purpose. Rain away – nothing's getting through all this padding without the help of blades or claws.

--A--


	54. Chapter 54

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Fifty-Four

--A--

Despite my dislike of braving the path up to Cloud Ruler Temple in the dark, Steffan and his men had no such fears. If anyone noticed the way I stayed close to the middle of the group, and showed unease no one said anything.

It was predawn when we finally arrived after staying most of the night in Bruma. With the guildhall unoccupied, (and not wanting to answer questions that might arise) I volunteered the place, if we could get it unlocked. Turns out Steffan wasn't always so straight-laced as he is now – I've never seen a well brought-up individual pick a lock that fast.

Steffan was eager to get the armor of Tiber Septim back to the Temple, hence our very early, wee hours of the morning start up into the mountains.

For my part, I was eager to get out of my ectoplasm-coated clothes. Fortunately, I wasn't the only woman in the party, so the three of us made a case that we weren't setting foot in Cloud Ruler Temple, crusted over with ectoplasm and reeking like a compost heap in midsummer.

We didn't have to argue too hard at the outset – ectoplasm is one of the few substances that makes everyone want to take a bath before carrying on. But a bath in a tub under a roof is always preferable.

Never before have I gotten so drenched in ghost-goo, and been so glad of following Einar's advice: always pack spare flint and tinder, always carry an extra blade, and never ever leave home without an extra set of underwear and socks.

And we mean, beyond the usual 'extra set'.

But that's neither here nor there – only a couple people wound up having to do laundry, and dry in the sun as we marched. Lucky for them the weather's fairly warm down here.

Jauffre, bearing a lantern in one hand strode out of the Temple to meet us, golden light spilling from the open doors. He looked like he'd dressed in a hurry, and wore a vaguely groggy expression which cleared as he watched Steffan carrying the armor. We actually all took turns lugging the thing up here, but Steffan got to make the triumphant entrance. I don't begrudge it to him - that armor's damn heavy. It would have turned a Daedric dagger in its day with barely a scratch to show for it. "You got it!" His weathered face actually lost several years as he touched the woolen outer wrapping.

"I was going to suggest it be set up in the chapel," I announced.

"Yes, yes that's right," Jauffre murmured, not paying full attention to my words.

"Let me change clothes and I'll set it up, Jauffre," I volunteered.

Jauffre jumped. "Eh?"

Ha! I knew I wasn't the only one for whom 'huh?' or some similar word was an appropriate answer. "I said, let me change my clothes and I'll get this unwrapped and set up in the chapel. Quietly – Martin's still sleeping, yes?" I asked.

"Yes," Jauffre answered. "Come, Steffan, help me with this," and with that Jauffre walked off, obviously deliriously happy at having this relic back.

He stopped halfway across the courtyard, then came flapping up to me. "Did you get…what Martin needed?" Jauffre asked.

"Certainly. And you'll notice, everyone came back in one piece."

I won't say safe and sound. The night in Bruma was partly spent telling ghost stories – part of the reason no one complained about setting off early. I think we all had goosebumps after that. I know some good ones which have nothing to do with monster-slaying or Yokudan sea-witches.

I love ghost stories – Elsweyr has the best.

"Yes, I did notice that. I begin to wonder…" Jauffre shook his head, and patted my shoulder. Then he grimaced. "What the…" he looked at his hand.

"Crusty ectoplasm – it's why I wanted to change clothes before going into the chapel," I answered, reaching up and casually brushing crusty gunk off my shoulder. "I got most of it, but it's stubborn stuff…"

Jauffre didn't detain me after that, though I saw him repeatedly rubbing his hand on his clothes, as if trying to make sure none of the gunk stuck to him.

The barracks was full of the sounds of sleep, and it didn't take long to nice people were missing – Caro and Erina among them. Two of the Gate Crew, and if two are gone, it's safe to bet more are. Fishing fresh clothes out of my footlocker I rediscovered a leather pouch near the bottom, lurking in a corner. The embroidery on the front reminded me what was in it, and opening it, I poured out the small sigil-stones I've collected so far, buzzing with Daedric magicka in my palm.

Dropping the stones back into the pouch, I tossed them onto the coverlet of my bed, then changed quickly, and put both the pouch of sigil stones and the phial of dried blood on my belt before hurrying softly out of the barracks and to the chapel.

Jauffre and Steffan were both chatting quietly in the hall, and neither raised issue when I entered the chapel and began unwrapping the armor. I guess they figure it's part of the 'finish the job' thing specialists have. They're right, but I wouldn't have complained if someone else did it. Still, it was nice to have something to focus on. I wasn't jumpy – the goosebumps from ghost stories have worn off by now, but I'm still uneasy. Because I can't avoid Martin forever, and I can't just forget how I fouled up something I wanted.

And what's _he_ supposed to think? Dammit.

Fumbling I managed to pull a knot so tight, instead of loosening it, that I spent the next five minutes biting my tongue and focusing on the task at hand. Damn knots.

And the smell of _chicken_ lingers.

I should have just kissed him. I had time.

Finally the armor came out of it's last layer of protective wraps, and I hefted it onto the stand Steffan or Jauffre had brought in for it. This was more awkward than one might think, but I managed without dropping Jauffre's precious relic. If I were to do this properly, I'd scrub the blood off, very carefully, and polish the thing mirror-bright.

I traced the Imperial seal near the neck, stamped deeply into the metal so neither wear nor tear not time could wholly obliterate it.

"It's beautiful." Martin's voice announced.

I jumped. Okay, maybe I'm not _quite _over the goosebumps from ghost stories, but I recovered myself.

How long has he stood back there, all quiet-like?

"They don't make stuff like they used to. What I've got for you, on the other hand, isn't. Blood in a glass isn't usually a great thing to give someone." Turning I produced the phial and gave it a shake. I didn't walk towards him, but stood rooted where I was, looking for cues to follow. "But, as you said, you wanted it."

Martin strode forward, looking calmly composed as he always did and took the proffered phial. "More than enough," he murmured and gave the phial a twirl, as if sloshing a liquid around in it. As I watched the flaked and powdery blood changed slowly to liquid. "Perfect, Ailirah, thank you. How was the mission, by the way?" Martin looked up.

I shifted uncomfortably. "Gross. Ectoplasm everywhere. Even in my _hair_." I gestured, finally making a joke about it. Humor can get you out of a lot of uncomfortable situations.

"Ah, the woes of a dungeon diver," Martin remarked lightly.

Looking up I found him smirking at me. You know…that smirk could be used to _devastating_ effect. "Yeah, well, lucky for me, it's good for the hair," I reached up and gave my ponytail a flick. "You…like magicka, right?" I asked clumsily, feeling my cheeks warming up. I'm not blushing…I'm not blushing…dammit. I am.

"Yes…why?" he asked warily, as if expecting me to perhaps pull a prank on him.

I meant to pull the sigil stones from the pouch and hand them over, but instead, my fingers went for the thongs holding the pouch to my belt. Detaching it, I held it out to him. "Then you might like this."

Martin took it, eyebrows slightly arched, examining the Nordic-styled dragon on the…

Oh. Someone just put an arrow between my shoulders. Dragon, Ailirah, _dragon_. Association of ideas.

Oh, someone _please_ shoot me.

If Martin though I was making a joke, he didn't show it, but opened the pouch and tipped the stones into his hand. His eyes lit up with surprise at the sigil stones. "These are..." He looked up, and I caught his eye – something I realized I'd avoided doing up until now. My heart skipped a beat uncomfortably.

"Yeah," I nodded, willing him to look back at the stones and not at me.

I'm doing it again. I'll call it the chicken dance. Pull yourself together, Ailirah.

"Ailirah, this is…" he started. They must be more magical than I thought.

"Please." Looking up I found it easier to meet his eyes. "I want you to have them." This is the Ailirah apology. I folded up and acted with the grace of a rampaging troll. If he wasn't upset in the least it means I misread something, or he's guessed why I froze up. Either way – I fouled up. Fact is, he makes me feel _shy_. It's not even his fault, really.

He studied my expression for moment, then nodded.

"Thank you," I mumbled before he could say anything else, feeling tension knots in my stomach release a little.

Martin's hand found mine, and I didn't pull away when he wrapped it around mine, warmth seeping from his palm into my skin. "You won't when I tell you what's next on the agenda. Things happened while you were at Sancre Tor."

Looking up I shifted back into my work mentality. "Like why two, possibly more of the Gate Crew are gone?" I know the full unit is gone, I simply don't wan tit to look like I'm worried.

"You noticed that already," Martin nodded. "We got word from Bruma after you left – strange people poking around the house of spies you and Caroline cleaned out. One of them got away – we may be running very low on time."

Yes, no doubt they want their missing Dunmer spy back. I still haven't heard anything, and I'm still not going to ask. I don't want to know.

"Good. It means Mankar Camoran can't skulk around out of reach too much longer. Don't worry," I gave Martin a lopsided grin. "We'll get him. He'd better pray _I_ don't get him. I've got a bone to pick. Several."

"I don't doubt that," Martin tugged me over to sit on one of the pews, before letting my hand go. "Gates are popping up all over the place – close to towns. That is why the Gate Crew was sent out so quickly. We've already received word from Leyawiin, that the Fighter's Guild has that one under control, and Bravil's. We sent a pair of high-ranking Blades to the heads of each city to request assistance to amass an army at Bruma."

"But the Mythic Dawn could change their minds?"

"Jauffre and I have an idea of how to make sure they don't." Martin answered. "After Sancre Tor, I hope the next item we need to get to Camoran is a little easier to obtain."

"What do you need?" I asked, biting my lip.

"Ailirah, if you keep flaying your lips.." Martin stated, but stopped.

"Ow." The moment he mentioned it, my teeth slipped and I drew blood. "I seem to be picking up new bad habits." I grunted, touching the injury, and blinking. I'd bitten deep, as the substantial blot of blood on my finger proved.

"I could do something for that, if you like," Martin offered carefully. I read this as a visible attempt not to scare me off again. Which is very sweet of him, considering what a moron _I'm _being.

Normally, I'd tell someone with that sort of offer not to waste their energy, it'd stop bleeding in a moment. However, in this case…no. Because I recognize it for what it is. A tenuous attempt to find out where we stand. "Would you?" I asked, trying and failing to sound calmly casual about it.

Martin reached up his thumb resting against my lips, his fingers against my cheek, not quite cupping my face, but close to it. My heart gave an uncomfortable beat and then sped up a little as he wrought his healing spell. It made my lips feel cold and tingly, and the skin on my back prickled at the press of his magical signature.

Definitely like it better than Sanguine's. "Thanks," I said, when he drew his hand back.

"You're welcome." After a pause he shifted so he was facing the armor again. "May I ask a favor of you – on behalf of the Blades?"

No, but you can ask me a favor on behalf of yourself. "Ask."

"To open the door to Paradise, we need a Great Welkynd Stone. You're familiar with the lesser stones, I believe."

Any dungeon diver worth their gear knows about Welkynd stones. "Yeah – they're quite a commodity. Mages love them." I answered. "I used to have one above my bed at the Guildhall." A trophy of sorts.

"Once every Aylied city had such a stone. But they've been plundered in the intervening centuries…"

"Hey!" I elbowed him gently. I'll have you know some people consider what I do 'plundering'.

Martin chuckled. "All right, _recovered_ during intervening centuries." He corrected himself, smirking at me as if to say 'call it what you like, I didn't mean you personally and the facts remain'. "The Great Stone of Miscarcand is reputed still to shine in the deep darkness of its ruined halls."

Whoa. It's early, so my brain's a little slow – or at least that's the excuse I usually use – but it sounds like…

"But no one has ever done more than glimpse it from a distance. It is said to be guarded by the ghost of the last king of Miscarcand." Martin continued. "We need the stone. Miscarcand is located between Skingrad and Kvatch – we have a map."

Which I'll undoubtedly need. But it sounds to me like this is a fully-sanctioned dungeon dive. "It sounds like another dungeon dive," I said slowly. A safer, hopefully less ectoplasmic-sloppy one.

"It is." Martin answered.

"And…no convoy? No big team?" I couldn't keep the hopeful note out of my voice. I can feel good spirits and pure joy bubbling up, effervescing like a mage's brew.

Martin shook his head. "If you would like to take a team, the appropriate person will be released from current duties, but I thought…" he paused. "I thought that a fish in water might resent a convoy."

"You bet your baby-blue eyes!" I beamed, transported by the opportunity to get _back _into my proper realm of experience. Yes! This is my job! This is my forte! Not massive dungeons filled with cultists! Not scary dungeons full of tormented souls and dripping with ectoplasm! Aylied ruins! Traps! Bats! Bouncing to my feet with more enthusiasm than I've felt in a long while I turned and – before my brain caught up with my emotions – I swept down and planted a kiss on Martin's cheekbone.

Then realized what I'd just done, blushed red as a beet then fled shouting about how I had better get on with my job. I can't believe I did that...so why don't I feel utterly mortified?

I paused at the doorway and peered back in. Stoic Martin was doubled up on the pew, trying to stifle what looked to me like a fit of laughter. He cleared his throat and got to his feet, at which point I took off for the barracks at a run. Well…he kissed me first, right? Right? So he shouldn't mind...right?

Ugh – forget it. I'm going dungeon diving and I'm not...

My armor is _gone_. "What? No! Where'd it go?!" I demanded, waking up the entire barracks – most of whom yelled at me to shut up and go back to sleep. "No! Armor's missing!" Damn! I always clean it myself, so where the hell is it?!

No nonononono!

Getting to my feet I headed back to the workroom to find one of the armorers with my armor and a rough scrubbing pad.

"Wh-what you do?!" I demanded, incoherent from embarrassment at my own lack of self discipline (I shouldn't have bolted like I had a guilty conscience), the lack of grace in that same moment (some people never grow out of the 'gangly' stage), and this wrench in the works of my trying to get out of the Temple and on with my job. And yet, the back of my mind, the practical part that sits back when I get worked up and flustered demanded practically: and you're upset because…?

He looked up, startled, though whether by the red-faced redhead or the bad diction I'm not sure. "Steffan said his crew got slimed. That stuff'll corrode your armor, you know," he gestured with his scrubbing pad. The smell of whatever potion or liquid he was using on my armor hit my nostrils as I started forward. "So Steffan says 'pitch in, the crew's tired'."

"Whoa! No! I'm going back into the field! What am I supposed to do without my armor?!" Wait. Damn.

"Well…wait I guess. Good thing Steffan said to get yours done first, else you'd have to wait longer." Came the nonplussed response.

Someone, somewhere, enjoys watching me suffer. I'm suffering. Oh, I'm suffering. "I can't dungeon dive in just my day clothes…" I whined.

"Well, I'll be done before noon, so you can leave then. Unless you want to take it like this. Smelly, crusty, corroding and all," he answered.

Groaning I hauled myself to the great hall where Martin – still looking amused – picked idly at breakfast. Grabbing a bowl, unsure whether to whine to him for sympathy or not, I flopped onto the bench across from him. It must be a good sign – I might run away for a few feet, but I always come back.

"What's the matter?" he asked, with an admirable imitation of a straight face.

"They're cleaning my armor," I announced, sounding slightly distressed.

"I thought you liked clean armor," Martin responded.

I glowered, but it was ruined by the horror of finding my trip postponed. "I do…but this is _not_ a good time for it."

Martin patted my arm, resting on the table. "I'm sure a few hours won't write anyone's death-notice," he said bracingly.

Looking up at him, I found his eyes dancing with humor, and my mouth tried to smile. "You like harassing me when things don't pan out, don't you?" I asked. You like watching me frazzle, don't you?

Martin chuckled. "A little."

"What if I harass you about the bookworm tendencies?" I asked dryly.

"Maybe I miss being harassed," he returned just as calmly.

I looked up, looked him in the eye ready to retort, but it died on my tongue. There was too much wicked humor and amusement at the redhead for me to give my original retort. Instead I scraped my composure into a basket, and rifled through it for a smug smile. "We'll see," I returned.

I am _not_ walking into that trap. But at least some of my embarrassment dwindled, replaced by rueful amusement. Well, looks like the amount of bullshitting going on is the same as ever, and things might even have…progressed…so give me a few hours to figure out where things actually stand and I'll be fine. Oddly enough…I get the feeling there's no uncomfortable meetings or silences in the future. Because mortified as I was for my slip earlier…I'm still sitting at his table, and we're sharing breakfast, which is fairly normal.

I took a bite of my porridge and nearly choked on it. "Oh, gross!" I gagged. What I thought was sugar turned out to be _salt_. That's what I get for not paying attention.

"Maybe it's a good thing you've got to wait for a while before you can leave. At this rate you might just climb up on your horse and try to ride off in all directions." He looks like the cat who just ate the canary. He _does_ like seeing me get worked up. Ugh.

There's too much truth to this to ignore. I think I just lost this one. And it's all his fault.

And here I thought I was growing more mature.

--A--


	55. Chapter 55

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Fifty-Five

--A--

Creeping through the ruins of Miscarcand it struck me how much I've come to rely on my Oblivion-gifted darkvision. For once I needed no lantern (nor did I need to squint like a nearsighted magpie) to pick my way along the rubble-strewn floor. The decaying grandeur of the Aylied city hides _treasures_ and I can't understand _why_ no one's apparently been down to the second level before.

The first level is pretty well picked over – to the point I'm absolutely disgusted. Not a ring, charm, or Welkynd stone (the normal kind) anywhere. I _looked_. Hard.

See, here's the thing about being a girl and dungeon diving that may or may not occur to everyone. It's an opportunity to find pretty things – and no one will ever guess that this is a major motivator. Sure, I like getting good and turn-the-bathwater-gray filthy, and I have no love for the undead so clearing them out is like…a civic duty.

But you've got to admit, Varla stones and Welkynd stones are _very_ pretty. And Aylieds knew a thing or two about magic trinkets – like my favorite magic ring back home. It's not practical to wear (not the least because it's mostly gold, and I don't want something to dent it, or worse, crush it around my finger), but if I need to appear captivating and cultivated then it's the jewelry of choice. It also has a spell lodged in the stone that makes me come across as a very charming individual. I don't like wearing it in familiar company because it feels too manipulative.

Still, it's come in useful before now. It won't make a master orator out of me, or even a master negotiator, but it does seem to take off some of the rougher edges of my personality.

Anyway, in this sort of place, the Daedra-ish dark vision is definitely a gift…even if some of the other side-effects are less so. Avoiding a gouge in the floor which might have tripped me up before – and when I dungeon dive, I'm very careful, graceful and fairly quiet about it – I continued to slip forward, moving carefully so as not to rattle the rubble too loudly. It does no good to sneak up on ghosts, but so far, all I've seen are zombies. And zombies are as dumb as a sack of stones. Not the brightest septims in the purse.

Lucky me – I don't want to think about Septims at the moment…

It's not working. Part of me is glad he picked up on my sudden burst of discomfort. The other half – maybe even slightly more than half – wishes otherwise. It was _just_ a _kiss_ for crying out loud. It's not like he planned to take me for a tumble.

I really should lay off the sarcasm. It gives me ideas, highly distracting ideas.

Pausing with a sigh of irritation, I leaned against a wall, checking around me just in case of shambling maggot-heaps. I _thought_ a good dive would clear my head. Turns out otherwise. I hate being wrong. Never have I felt so far from home, so isolated, so well-away from every comfortable notion I've ever had.

I'm such a wuss.

And Sanguine – that bastard – is probably laughing his head off.

--A--

Taking out my frustration on the undead didn't help me with my main problem, but it did keep me pretty well occupied, until I got to what I sincerely hoped was the last level. My shoulders hurt from swinging Frostreaver around and my chainmail feels like lead. I guess I should have showed a little more restraint and not succumbed to the Dremora-ish urge to hack up my enemies as I mowed them down before me…but as they were _only _the undead…

The problem is, I see a massive raised dais, guarded, originally, by three zombies. I took them down already, which leaves me eyeing the stairs up to the dais – which looks like the most probable place for the Great Welkynd Stone to be – safe, up out of reach.

Once again, I paced around the floor. There's got to be some kind of trap, or hidden haunt. There's too many ghost stories about this place – made worse by the fact I heard new ones not so long ago. And ghost stories settle in the brain like nothing else. I don't mind feeling slightly creeped out, but I don't like this brooding anxiety, that chokes the air and makes me feel all clammy.

Feeling much the same irritation about this as I felt about my graceless performance back at Cloud Ruler temple, I grunted something rude to no one in particular, then tromped up the stairs, gritting my teeth and gripping Frostreaver.

What kind of spineless little _s'wit_ am I turning into? I don't like it.

I could see the Stone before I reached the top of the stairs. My stomach lurched and a vague smile of 'ooh it's so shiny!' crept across my face. It _is_ shiny! Magically powerful, I can feel it buzzing from several steps away, and it's so _pretty, _the stone glimmering in its silver casing. It's a pity we're going to destroy something so pretty…

Whoa – stop right there. Think a little harder, Lirah, if you know how. Mehrunes Dagon's going to destroy a lot more pretty things than this hunk of crystal. I'll bet this stone has some kind of spell on it, or inherent to it to keep people from wanting to take it away from its resting place. An insidious little thing – too bad I'm immune.

Swinging my backpack off and setting it on the ground, I fished out the cloth I plan to wrap the Stone in, and the oilcloth to wrap around that. It might seem a little extreme to give it a waterproof wrap, but apart from anything else, Welkynd Stones are mischievous, as I learned early on. Not sentient, but just…unexpected things happen when you carry them around in your backpack. So many failed experiments and ruined backpacks later, I discovered an oilcloth turned inside out will keep most of the mischief at bay.

Though, the oilcloth usually winds up sporting weird colors which shouldn't be there by the time I unwrap the stone. Sometimes the linen stays whatever color it supposed to be…but not usually. I've had one singed to ash, another turn up sopping wet, and a third come out covered in some kind of pink mold.

I know they can be used by mages to restore magicka supplies, or even as focus objects for tricky casting, but it's strange the magicka should…_leak_ like that. The mages don't seem to think so, but then again, they're not the one with pink-moldy stuff in their backpack. Unstable magical artifacts _indeed_.

Although…I was kind of close to Sheogorath's shrine that time…might explain why the mold smelled like cheese. I thought it was a bit _far_ for him to reach but, who knows? We thought Mehrunes Dagon couldn't launch a war on us and look what we've got.

Frowning at the thought of Mehrunes Dagon – there's no slur bad enough for him - I leaned Frostreaver against the plinth, took the Stone, rolled it up in the linen, then the oilskin and stopped. I almost missed it, a faint, rattling breath of _something_ lurking. I set the stone back down, reaching for Frostreaver.

The hissing breath turned into a rasping laugh, and a whisper of words I didn't understand.

The meaning was quite clear: _Fool. Do you truly think to fight_?

Well, considering the alternative…yes. Yes, I think I'll have a go. "Come out, come out," I called, turning sharply, expecting to see _it_, whatever _it _is. My vote is on the ghost in the ghost stories – the Lost King or the Last King or whoever he was.

The fact remains, his empire collapsed. The one I serve is still standing. Well, most of it anyway.

I didn't see it. I didn't even get a _hint_ of the spell until just before it slammed into me, full force in the chest, knocking me backwards over the plinth to land heels over head on the stone beneath. The spell punched straight through my apparently not-warded-enough armor. It felt as if my skin was bruised, but my ribs and breastbone didn't seem damaged.

Unfortunately, I could feel vitality and strength draining out of me, to the point I actually untangled from my rather undignified position as the spell took effect. Looking up a half-corroded face appeared, leaning over the plinth, undead eyes burning with evil green fires. The smell of death, or rot and corruption filled my nostrils. I've fought liches, but I've never had one hit me with a spell so strong…

Liches aren't zombies, they're much smarter, even if they're just as decrepit. They also retain most of the power they had when alive, which is bad news for the average adventurer. Fortunately it's a pretty much lost art, turning yourself into a lich.

My fingers unwillingly released Frostreaver as the lich walked around the plinth, shuffling, almost hobbling on decayed feet. His robes might have once befitted a king, but now they looked like little more than grave clothes exposed to too long a span of time. A rotting hand, the fingernails, dangerously long, reached out. It shouldn't be possible for such a withered thing to haul a healthy if short girl like me up as though I weighed no more than a doll, but it did, fist full of chainmail and the clothes beneath.

Unfortunately, liches, as greater undead, don't play by the usual rules.

Drawing me close to eyelevel it laughed, making me gag and dry-retch at the smell of its putrid breath. The cold sharpness of a free fingernail - enhanced by magicka and bearing the hallmark unclean feel of necromantic power - touched my throat, scraping gently across the exposed flesh as my head lolled. The lich hissed, suddenly and I screeched as it slammed me back onto the plinth, its clawed hand still gripping my shirtfront and mail, the other hand raised like a dagger, ready to spill my blood on the Great Stone's plinth, like a perverse offering.

Lore says blood of a maiden has power – though most practices involving such sacrifices have mercifully died out. Too bad for this thing I'm not that kind of maiden. And I'm not beaten yet.

My hand still has some mobility left, and my little magicka remained untouched, unaffected. As the questioning nail touched my neck again – as if it wanted to see me scream, writhe, and panic - I lurched, reaching up and grabbing the lich by its half-decayed face, my thumb slipping into one of the eye sockets, better enhancing my grip.

The spell is weak, but it's better than nothing, and far better than I could have managed only a few months ago. Even as I forced the spell into my hand, I could feel a deep sort of tremor in my very core as something Dremora raised its ugly head in response to the threat of a slit throat. Fire coiled around my hand, the smell of burning putrescence filling the air as magicka raced down my arm, making my veins tingle with the extra force triggered by the sentiment 'how dare you?'.

I've never felt so glad of a Dremora moment.

As the lich screamed, writhed and wailed, I managed to push myself up on one elbow before the thing wrenched itself free. Getting to my feet, I staggered slightly, but the spell's wearing off. The lich still flailed, holding its ruined face – possibly no one's ever tried something so simple, yet so effective. The undead are highly flammable, and it occurs to me now the spell is stronger than it should be – I'm not a very good mage. The answer leapt into my mind like a kingfisher into water.

Dremora know about fire spells, destruction is part of Mehrunes Dragons' sphere of influence. So _if_ I'm having a Dremora moment, it makes sense those attributes similar to theirs would strengthen as well.

Still, I doubt I could throw fireballs without the duress.

I staggered again, this time the lich and I both went over the edge. He hit the ground first, weathered bones breaking on the impact, or under my weight. Despite the fact the landing _hurt_, I didn't give the lich time to recover. One, two, my fist pummeled its face, shattering sinuses, crushing where its nose should have jutted out as it tried to claw for my eyes. Straddling its chest, pinning arms with my knees, I grabbed its face in both hands, forcing magicka to pour out, every drop of Dremora wrath, of Daedric seething fury whipped up like a storm, eager for the gratification of lashing out at someone.

Only this time, it's my choice who gets the brunt of it, and in this case it's going to help me more than hurt me. Because with it came more power than I'd have otherwise. And I need it.

The lich continued to flail as the spell ran its course, my eyes shut tight as my head exploded with pain, the lich flailing and shrieking, trying to throw me off, the smell of corrosion, burnt corrosion, making me nauseous.

The lich went still just before I tipped off to one side, every iota of power spent. As black clouds swirl it occurs to me…I almost feel like my non-Dremora self...

--A--

The stone floor felt cool against my cheek as I shifted. Opening my eyes slightly, I looked around, discovering my Dremora-ish dark vision still worked fine. I hadn't managed to purge the damage to my soul – if that's even the way to describe it – I only succeeded in draining the well of it. It will refill, but for the moment I feel pretty good, if achy, tired, and groggy. Don't ask me to conjure up so much as a cantrip, it's not happening. I probably can't even call my magelight at the moment…magical overdraw.

The dark vault of Miscarcand loomed above me, slightly illuminated. Wow…that's quite a way to fall – but I've fallen further in my adult life. No wonder the skeletal wonder over there broke bones when we fell – never mind they're brittle with age anyway. Still, I'm lucky I didn't crack my head open, or broken my arm or worse doing something dumb like that.

Speaking of the lich…

Its remains lay within arm's reach, little more than bonemeal, grave mold, and a little green-glowing goo I'm not going to touch. Thank goodness I've heard of mages getting overdrawn, but this is ridiculous. Head clanging I pushed myself to sitting, drawing up my knees so I could rest my elbows on them, bowing my head as if the position would alleviate the discomfort.

That's the thing about fighting the undead – they're so damn sneaky…and the greater undead are smart enough to get the drop on you. Like I said, I've fought liches, but that one was…wow. Aylied to the core. Slowly I regained my feet, then hobbled up the stairs, still aching from where the spell hit me, but otherwise unharmed.

The Great Stone lay on the floor, opposite where the lich and I wound up scuffling, still in its wrappings. Scooping it up, I shoved it into my backpack, slung the heavy thing on – with much groaning and swearing – before descending back to the lich to check to see if anything useful remained.

A key. All that work for a stupid key? I'm starting to wonder if this thing sapped my luck as well as my health. I still feel like a little old lady. The damn thing didn't even drop a staff for me to lean on, on my way out. Some victory…but I do have _this_.

Hefting my backpack a little higher on my tired shoulders – the drain of the spell may have run its course, but I'll feel pretty crappy for a few hours yet - I started hobbling about, looking for the nearest archway, where a door out of here might stand concealed. At least I'm not covered in ectoplasm.

--Author's Notes Appended--

For those wondering 'why didn't Ailirah find and smash the lich-king's soul container, to keep the lich from respawning later?' the answer is, I double-checked the Lore for Elder Scrolls and she doesn't need to. The quest Affairs of a Wizard has a book 'The Path of Transcendence" which indicates a soul container is a weak point only for so long, before the transformation into a lich is complete. Afterwards, buff up your magical resistance sand bring your lunch.

I add this note because I very nearly did have her go looking for it, with intent to smash, which contradicts the ES canon, even if it adheres to the more mainstream ideas.


	56. Chapter 56

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

Chapter Fifty-Six

--A--

Bruma is preparing for war. I didn't even go into the city, en route to Cloud Ruler Temple, and I could tell. Quite aside from the steady stream of evacuees, guards on the walls stood twice as many as usual, clusters of the Bruma guard stood outside the walls, as if surveying where they expected the pending battle to take place.

From the path up to the Temple, below the enchanted cloud cover – thick as pea soup today – I could see pennants from Cheydinhal, and help from Skingrad came slightly ahead of me. For a few minutes I stopped progress simply to look at the little town – and from here it seems so small.

With thoughts winding towards the future, I'm not sure which I'll find more disturbing. Throwing myself into the expected Oblivion Gates (which will cause me problems later), or finding myself ordered to stay on this side of them (which will leave me worrying a bout whoever _does_ get sent). Either way, there will probably be enough Dremora to keep us all very busy. More and more it comes home to me, I've never fought a real battle. I don't mean the stuff I see in my usual line of work, or even some of the stuff I've seen in service of the Empire…I mean, with soldiers on both sides and orders perhaps beyond 'get that one over there!'.

I wonder…does Martin share this kind of apprehension? Would he rather be down here, when the battle comes, fighting with the rest of us? It's out of the question. Jauffre will have heart failure if Martin so much as brings it up…but still. No one wants to go. But no one wants to be thought a coward either.

Heavy thoughts weighing down my shoulders, I turned my feet again up the path, taking in deep breaths of cooling air, trying not to let myself spiral into the well of fear and dark thoughts. Goodness knows I don't need a trip down the dark road right now.

Still – it doesn't look like a lot of soldiers down there. It _definitely_ doesn't inspire confidence. They aren't just closing an Oblivion Gate, they're repelling three. And if they can't, they'll find a siege engine on their doorstep.

Memories of Kvatch began to fog my mind.

Fortunately, passing through the gates into Cloud Ruler Temple carried with it the feeling of finally getting _home_, though here too are the blatant signs of impending war. Blades all wearing full armor, armed for the end of the world. Even those who usually favor lighter armor for peacetime have dispatched with anything less than something they'd attack a pack of Dremora in.

Martin was not in the chapel, nor was he at his usual table in the Great Hall, so finally I stopped to ask. Otherwise I'll be looking for him all day, and I don't feel like wandering around like a sheep out of pasture. "He's in Jauffre's office, and expecting you," the nameless Blade I asked answered simply, as though I ought to know.

Given my trepidation about Martin and where I stand with him at the moment, this answer didn't please me much. I know he's expecting me, dipshit – I just want to know where he…wait a minute. "What's he doing in Jauffre's office?" Something about the way the man said it, makes me think Jauffre was not, for once, hovering in the wings.

The blade shrugged. "None of my business." His tone said 'none of yours either'.

"Well, where's Jauffre?" I asked narrowly. Usually Jauffre is in Jauffre's office. It's why we call it '_Jauffre's_ Office'.

The Blade looked at me, then seemed to remind himself I wouldn't have all the recent information, due to my trip. My heart felt cold in my chest. "He...he's in the infirmary. He's taken ill. But," the Blade reached out, and stopped me by the shoulder, moving his hand when I glowered at the appendage touching my person. "Report to His Highness first. Jauffre'll live."

Who the hell is the guy and why is he so _bitchy_? Something in the Blade's tone told me whatever was wrong with our fearless leader wasn't life threatening at the moment – but I didn't like his tone. I sincerely hope this is well-meaning worry.

I didn't like the information I got, regardless of tone, either. It makes me worry. Well…I did realize earlier he's getting older…The thought of losing Jauffre, whom I sort of expect to be in the background at all times, did nothing to ease my mindset, so I set off for his office to hand over the Great Welkynd Stone, still in my backpack. Losing Jauffre would be like…like having Uncle Modryn leave Chorrol.

Uncle Modryn…I wonder what he'd think of all this. He might be a little proud I'm showing a little rebellion to my brothers – a successful one, if getting kicked out of the guild can be called success – but I suspect he would tell me 'now you're on your own, learn to keep your head down. It'll stay on your shoulders longer.'

Yeah. That's Uncle Modryn all right – and he's quite correct. Too bad I'm slow on the uptake.

I hope I don't find anything too weird in there this time. I've had enough bad news and bad feelings for one day. The door guards, surprisingly, did not comprise of Baurus and Cyrus. Apparently _they_ were with Jauffre, probably making sure he didn't strain himself, though the guard at the door was a little more forthcoming about what was wrong with Jauffre.

Apparently his heart gave him some trouble – making my quip about heart failure in particularly poor taste. I'm glad I didn't say it out loud.

Fortunately for Jauffre, the failure was caught early, amounting to little more than a hiccup in his overall health, but he's staying in the infirmary just as a precaution, the incident having occurred yesterday evening. Feeling somewhat soothed I knocked on the door.

"Come in." Martin answered briskly.

Sliding the door open I found him pouring over papers on the desk, an Akaviri katana lying in its sheath in easy reach. He looked up as I slid the door shut. "You heard about Jauffre?" Martin asked without preamble.

"Yeah, just now." I answered a little stupidly. "Is he really okay?" The old guy gets to me sometimes, but on the whole, I rather like him.

"He's fine." Martin assured me, then when I didn't look wholly convinced, added, "It happens when you get older, and can't slow down a bit. I reassigned Baurus and Cyrus to keep an eye on him – act as gofers, whatever he needs."

"_You_ reassigned?" I asked a little incredulously. Well, at least Jauffre's in good hands.

Martin glanced up again, smirking slightly. "Amazing what the right words in the right ears will do." He answered blandly, but I could tell this was only polite small talk. Still – good initiative. Cyrus and Baurus probably put up a real fight, especially Baurus. Eh, Jauffre will probably reassign them as soon as he realizes what's happened, or is strong enough to raise a fuss.

"I have something for you." Walking up to the desk I unshouldered my bag, before reaching in and groping for the oilcloth.

Please, please, _please_, let there be no mold, or anything weird or embarrassing in there.

Producing the stone in its wrapping, I transferred my backpack back onto the floor by my foot, while Martin walked around the desk as I began unwrapping the stone. Despite the fact he stood so close, I didn't feel as uncomfortable as one might expect. "Oilcloth?" he asked.

"Yeah – these things leak magicka, you know?" I responded with a shrug as I undid the last tuck in the oilcloth.

"Sometimes, if they're damaged." Martin agreed. "They'll repair themselves if the damage isn't too bad, but it does take time."

Hm. Maybe that explains it – I know my methods for getting them down off shelves isn't always the most gentle. Who knew? I _thought_ they were pretty durable. I guess technically they are – and if the worst is funny colors on the cloth I wrap one in, well. The cheese-smelling mold was a lot worse.

The linen showed no discoloration. Then again, I didn't have to knock it about with the tip of Frostreaver to get it to fall off its plinth. See? I'm not a mage, it's not my job to know. The mages never complained. I suppose by the time I got the stones where they needed to go, they'd repaired themselves. I figure Martin has better insight on this – he's a mage. Or was, for a number of years.

"Pretty, huh?" I asked as the stone shone softly. Looking deeply thoughtful, Martin continued to gaze at the stone, but I got the impression he wasn't really seeing it. His eyes looked a little out of focus, meaning he's thinking very hard. It's early, you're going to burn out your brain, carrying on that way. "So," I announced businesslike, snapping Martin out of his reverie. Turning to face him I crossed my arms. "We've got this, now what?"

"Normally we'd throw you a party, but as we're bracing for war," Martin offered. When I gave him a crinkled look of 'huh?' he shook his head. "A celebration – not only are you the Hero of Kvatch, but the Mistress of Miscarcand as well."

I swear, he's the only person I know of who could throw those kinds of titles around and not make me want to smack him. Maybe because there's too much rueful knowledge of the 'hey you – yeah you – you're now the So and So of Such and Such. Congratulations'. "Normally this is where the team goes out for drinks. But, like you said – preparing for war." I managed to sound fairly glib, but I didn't think he's buying it.

And it's getting awkward again. I don't know how many more awkward moments I can take. Firmly stomping on a roil of some Dremoraish thoughts, I sighed, rubbing my eyes. I've still got to check on Jauffre…then unless anyone has anything else for me, maybe I'll just go watch Bruma stew, if I can see it from the battlements. Take some quiet time for myself.

"When this is over, I'll buy you a drink." Martin's tone was rueful, but amused.

Opening one eye, then the other I smirked, cocking my head. I've got to be careful how I answer this, because the operative is 'when this is over'. I don't mean it implies 'if we both survive', I mean when this is over, he'll be the Emperor – if the Elder Council doesn't find a way to raise a fuss about it. I suppose he'll need the drink more than I will, once he's been crowned and spends a couple weeks dealing with all the trouble likely to pile up on him. "Have you ever been on a dungeon dive?" I asked, instead.

He shook his head. Yeah, I kind of figured.

"Well, how's this? When this is over, and things settle a bit, I'll take you and your security detail out on one. You, me, the guards and the zombies." Martin gave a laugh which might have voiced a little disbelief. "No, really. It's good exercise and _you_," I pointed at him, "are going to be stuck behind a desk. Or in a big uncomfy chair."

"You know, you're not really making the future look very appealing." Martin announced, but his tone still held some amusement.

"I suppose you're right. Still, if you want to go, I'll take you. You can buy me that drink on the way back." I added as an afterthought.

"Jauffre would have further heart failure if he heard you say that." Martin answered. It's probably true – though I'm surprised he made the 'heart failure' crack.

"Jauffre doesn't seem to realize you're not exactly incapable of looking after yourself. Besides, I offered to let the security guys tag along." As far as I'm concerned, that's a big concession. Dives are best for small groups anyway – but I understand as the Emperor, even incognito – there are certain thing I can't and shouldn't argue with. "Just…"

Once again, I show a clumsiness I wouldn't have believed myself capable of previously. Where I come from, an offer to buy drinks is an acceptable reward for a job past 'well done'. I suppose to the rest of the world it might be seen as something else. Something more personal than 'hey, you fought a tough fight, let's go somewhere and waste a little time'.

Well, not that I _wouldn't_ like to – but I honestly meant it as…oh hell. I'm going to quit while I'm ahead. Just when I thought the conversation was back in familiar just-friends waters. You know – where I'm comfortable, I go and put my foot in it. "Just think about it?" I appended lamely – so much so I nearly kicked myself. Now I _really_ sound uncomfortable. "I'm going to go check on Jauffre…" Looking up again I found Martin's attention back on the stone, though his expression had changed again. He looked tired, exhausted even, as if a lack of focus tugged away at his mask of composure. I know that expression – I wear it when I think no one's looking. "Are you going to be okay?"

Martin gave a start before rubbing his eyes. "Yes." Then he glanced over at me. "It's the Mysterium Xarxes...it clouds my mind and haunts my dreams like nothing I've ever experienced..."

"Clouds your dreams?" I don't like the sound of that

Martin gave me a very weighty look. "You know what I see in them. You've seen it yourself."

I couldn't stop from swallowing hard. Yes, I know very well what the book or the Gates can make you see in your sleep. I also know I can't really help with it. "You're sure you're done with that stupid book?" I asked, a little mulishly.

"Fairly." he answered, a little flatly.

"Well…I worry." I gave an unasked for explanation. "I'll be around." I grunted. I shouldn't have said anything.

Bring on the Dremora – at least I know what I'm doing when it comes to them.

"Ailirah?"

Turning to see what he wanted several things happened rather quickly. Martin - with a look of someone about to dive off a high rock – reached out, grabbing a handful of material near my shoulder and _pulled._ I, off balance, tripped towards him, reaching out to successfully brace myself one handed against the desk. Before I could demand what this was – he'd leaned forward and pulled me a little further.

My brain locked up – more from shock at the graceless, not-what-I-imagined shock of finding myself mouth to mouth with Martin. Granted, by the usual standard (okay, I might have read a couple bodice rippers as a teen – only a couple!) it was incredibly chaste. The deliberation with which it was conducted spoke loudly.

A moment later Martin pulled back slightly, then gave a short laugh. "You look like you need a moment to think," he murmured, still close enough that I could feel his breath, his lips grazing mine as he spoke. I can smell the bayberry soap on him. The hand on my shoulder loosened and slid a little higher, less restraining.

"I can't think when you do that." I murmured back, stupidly, my heart pounding irregularly in my chest. I _really_ can't think when you do that…

And…why is that a bad thing, again?

"That's the idea." He breathed, closing the distance again.

My hand left the desk, no longer needing it for balance, to drifted up to rest on his ribs, which he took as confirmation I wasn't going to pull away or pound him into pulp later.

Eh. Why would I _want _to?

My eyes drifted closed as he deepened the kiss – which came as a bit of a shock, but not as profound as the first – teasing my lower lip with his teeth, even as I drew closer to him.

Wow…that's good. That's really good. And to think I used to think tongue was gross.

_Sanguinite. _

Shut up.

A moment later he pulled back, and I became aware, as I let my head drop forward to rest against his chest, that I was breathing a little harder than I expected, my lips felt funny (hell – all of me feels funny just now, and for once not in a bad way). I was not, however, shaky, weak-kneed, or totally speechless. "Damn." I breathed as a compliment. Not to mention, from what I can tell, he's got quite a build. I've noticed it from a fighter's perspective but now from…

Yeah.

I think he heard me, because a moment later I felt him teasing one of the curls near my neck loose before winding it around his finger. It's not really long enough to do that, you know. He's breathing a little unevenly too and…and I can hear his heartbeat. It might seem a strange thing to notice, but then again, I'm not usually close enough to appreciate someone else's heartbeat. Turning my head slightly so my ear rested against his chest I counted beats, a little uneven, but strong and healthy.

Heartbeats…healthy hearts…there's something I'm supposed to do.

My Dremoraish side immediately reared its somewhat diminished but nevertheless ugly head hopefully, though I managed to wrestle it back into silence before I got much more than a wicked suggestion or two about what 'now what' could incorporate.

"I didn't know you had freckles." Martin announced softly moment later, freeing one hand to trace a thumb across one of my cheekbones.

"Yeah." I answered. It's not something most people notice – they're faint, but they're there. "I…" Now that I'm here, being held by you…I don't want to leave. Then I grinned cheekily at him. "I…need another moment to think."

Or not think, as the case actually is. Because hot damn, he's a great kisser.

And takes hints pretty well, too.

--A--


	57. Chapter 57

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. If updates are patchy for the next couple weeks, I apologize, I'm moving house. Hopefully this won't interfere too much, but life's good at throwing wrenches.

--A--

Chapter Fifty-Seven

--A--

Despite the fact Martin escorted me to the infirmary by the arm – a pleasant if somewhat innocent sensation - we both reached a state of 'all business' by the time we entered the infirmary, where Jauffre still resided. I say 'resided', for 'staying' wasn't what he wanted to do, by any means.

"Your Highness," Jauffre scowled, crossing his arms the moment Martin waved me to enter first. I never noticed it before, but Jauffre has monster eyebrows. He could scare kids with those eyebrows.

"Jauffre. I'm glad you have the energy to become indignant." Martin snapped the door shut softly, though with the air of sealing everyone else out of the room. Walking across the room, he proceeded to rifle through a sheaf of papers Jauffre apparently managed to get a hold of – though he gave the impression of feigning calm. "I was under the impression you were to take it easy."

"Paper pushing requires little effort," Jauffre grunted, hunching his shoulders like a disgruntled turtle. The way he's scowling, makes me think Martin must show some similarity to his father. In any case, enough to keep Jauffre from arguing, so instead he turned his monster-eyebrows framed glower towards me. "Have you told her?"

"Not yet, but I was about to," Martin let the papers fall back into their sheaf, watching the pages flip, a parody of seconds counting down to some resolution. We shouldn't let such moody thoughts take root. Still, the sound of flipping pages kept us all silent for a moment.

"So – what's the plan?" The silence left in the void caused by Martin's fidgeting – though I use the word loosely – pressed uncomfortably against my eardrums.

"You're not going to like it," Martin leaned on the table, before giving me his attention. Tell me something new. "Jauffre doesn't like it," Martin nodded at Jauffre, but his eyes glittered with mild amusement. Apparently this time the not-liked plan is a last resort, and Jauffre means to go along with it, like it or no.

"Hmph," Jauffre's snort could have sent birds fluttering from their trees.

"And the Countess of Bruma certainly won't like it." Martin's fingers followed the contours of the makeshift desk, feeling out the grain, the planes, the edges and corners before he continued. "Truth be told, I don't like it much either."

Well, I feel better knowing he won't throw me to the dogs out of convenience, so I looked towards the window, whitish-beige parchment shades filtering the light. "It must get so frustrating, when no one ever likes your plans. First the wrist-slashing, now this…tch, tch tch."

Martin shrugged, as if to say 'what can I do?'. Or maybe 'you win some, you lose some'.

"It's nice to know you're taking this seriously," Jauffre settled on his bed, shaking his head. Well, at least he doesn't sound sarcastic. I think there may yet be hope for us to understand where the other is coming from.

"It's nice to know you're okay." Honestly - a man can't huff half so well if he's _dying_. What was the rude sentry thinking? "So – what's the nasty, ugly, last-resort plan?"

Martin nodded, as if approving something, before answering. "So far the Gate or Paradise hinges upon relics, or artifacts. It also hinges upon a delicate balance, created by these artifacts – like a child's toy top."

It has to spin exactly right, otherwise it wobbles before falling over. Sounds about right, actually. "Okay." I'm with you so far. Rubbing my hands together I found my palms slightly sweaty. Oh nasty…damn, it's getting warm in here and it has nothing to do with Martin.

"Welkynd stones contain the concentrated power of Mundus; their counterparts are Sigil stones, which are used to hold open Oblivion Gates." Martin's blue eyes met mine, as the implications sunk in.

"No…" I couldn't stop the treacherous word from escaping my lips, though it had nothing to do with what I perceived him asking me: to go get it. "And not any Sigil Stone," I couldn't seem to think past the images of Kvatch, reflected back at me in sky blue crystal. "You know I would do it…but the city…" You know what you're asking these people to face.

His face said it all, even as my eyes slid like weights for a fishing line, past his nose, lips, chin, to settle somewhere near his breastbone. I never contemplated what might happen if I ever failed…now I have no choice in the matter. If I fail in the Gate…one way or another, it works out to my responsibility for a catastrophe of Kvatch-like proportions.

"Evacuating, you undoubtedly saw it." Jauffre answered. "They don't know about this…plan…"

"No, not yet," Martin agreed as I continued to gaze unfocussed, into the void between us. Without his expression to read I had to listen to the words more attentively. He doesn't like it either, but like me, recognizes there's little other choice.

"Okay. I understand." My vision returned to focus, my eyes returning to Martin's face.

"It's not a great plan," he admitted, fiddling with his sleeves, doubts filling the lines in his face like water in the cracks of the ground during a rainstorm.

"No, it's not. But it's the only plan, if you're willing to go through with it. I..." The words came more easily than I expected, like breathing. "I trust you." My heart warmed slightly, a feeling of confidence and strength filling my chest to spill into limbs at the expression which returned my words.

Martin nodded, as if his expression weren't enough to convey what those three simple words meant. "The risk is great. I remember Kvatch. I saw the terrible power of the Daedric siege engine." This seemed directed at Jauffre, as a reminder Martin knew _exactly_ what he was risking.

I wonder, if perhaps Jauffre expected me to raise serious protest, as I had previously. Sorry – but Martin's got the right idea. Without the Great Sigil Stone, we might as well roll out the welcome mat for Mehrunes Dagon.

Speaking of whom…I'd better leave the Razor here. I don't want to run into complications if I take it back into his realm – the last thing I need is a way for him to possibly track me. Normally I'd tell him 'come on over, bring your lunch', but there's too much at risk now, for such displays of idiot-bravado.

"It's soon, then?" The question leaped into the void of apprehensive silence like a bird into the arms of the wind.

Martin nodded. "We, and the Mages Guild, think it will be within the next ten days. Probably sooner."

"How…do you know?" Frowning, I began to chew on my thumbnail.

"There are…certain signs one can look for. Daedric magicka tends to have certain characteristics, and the Gates are – according to theory – preceded by a swarm or pocket of raw power from the Oblivion side." Martin paused as my nail tore. "The pocket bursts, serving as a catalyst for the Gate." I can tell he's watering this down for the non-scholar over here.

"Like blowing bubbles underwater?" I asked finally. This is so far beyond anything I ever studied, I wonder what arcane lore he's referencing. On second thought, no I don't.

"Yes, sort of," Martin crossed his arms. "Close enough."

"So we've got bubbles?"

"Lots." Martin answered. "The Blades have a contact in the Mages guild – this contact sent us a message while you were gone."

"So it's closer to eight days, then ten?" The expressions on Martin and Jauffre's faces indicated they hadn't expected me to catch this detail. "I may be a troll when it comes to magicka, but I can still count." This garnered grins – my own included. I hardly consider myself a troll – I'm much prettier. "Well, we can billet our men in the Bruma Guildhall – there's no one there."

"But…" Jauffre started.

"It would be better to have our base closer to what will become the field of battle," Martin broke in, tapping a fingernail against the table.

"You sure?" Jauffre nodded in agreement. I can tell, simply from looking at him, he intends to go. In fact, I think Martin intends to go, and will raise hell until he gets his way. I'd call it a tantrum if I didn't know better. As Emperor it's expected he lead his men. As our last hope, it's necessary to keep him safe.

"Surely, though, Mehrunes Dagon will notice we're amassing. Why won't he change locations? Hit us somewhere softer?" This is puzzling indeed. If I knew my enemies were piling up in one place, I'd let them, and attack somewhere else. Somewhere less heavily fortified.

Martin's grim expression answered my question. "Every trap needs bait. A lure to keep attention away from the hook." I hope his luck is stronger than mine.

I gave a half-disbelieving exhale. "It explains how you won Jauffre over." Perhaps not the most tactful thing I've ever said.

"He can't afford to lose the chance to destroy me. It's a risk I'm willing to take," Martin's tone dared me to argue, though he needn't have bothered. "We planned to leave as soon as you had opportunity to rest. You'll need it."

With a sigh I straightened, feeling the tension in my shoulders knotting the muscles. "Right – I'll be ready by mid-afternoon. It'll give me time to eat, rest, get myself pulled together."

"Speaking of pulled together," Jauffre's voice cut sharply through my response, "I've had quit enough of this place to last me a lifetime." Hopping off his cot he gathered his papers. "I'll be in my office, your security detail will be at your back, and you," Jauffre paused, as I tried not to smirk at him. "…you know what you need to do." With a nod, Jauffre swept out.

"He really hates it in here." I chuckled, watching the door slide shut behind him.

"I suppose it's too much to ask him to stay behind." Martin shrugged.

"No one wants to stay, and no one wants to go. We only want to do what's necessary." I think Brutus said it, once. Still, it's applicable. "Still…" I shook my head, unable to articulate what the word truly encompassed.

Martin walked over, stopping slightly out of my arms' reach – though undoubtedly within his. Short redhead, short arms. "Is there anything I can do?" The words came out awkward, as if flattened by a rampaging ogre. However, the sincerity remained, unalterably present.

How long is it, since a girl made you feel awkward?

Swallowing I shook my head. "Only…" damn these awkward moments, "…is it out of order to ask you to …hold me?" Swallowing hard, my teeth began to attack my bottom lip. When in doubt ask, but damn if it doesn't make me sound like a cheesy little twit.

Normally when I'm facing something I don't want to do, I can whine to a brother for sympathy. Well, They're on the other side of the province, I'm not in the Guild and I am having one of those days.

Martin reached forward without answering, pulling me towards him before wrapping his arms snuggly about me, his chin brushing the top of my head. I didn't notice before, but I fit against him very well. Hesitantly I slid my arms around him.

_Anchor me. _

Buh-bump. Buh-bump.

My eyes drifted closed as the even rhythm of his heart in his chest crept softly into my ear. Warm fingers brushed my bare neck, my hands balling into fists around the dark material of his shirt. It's really very selfish of me to ask, but…if I'm out saving the world…who's going to save me?

"Do you feel any better?" Martin asked some time later, even as I struggled to keep my thoughts centered on nothing in particular, though tangents kept popping up like rabbits from a field, some of them pleasant, most of them not.

"No – I feel like I'm wearing someone else's skin." The answer spilled forth before I thought about it. It's more as though I'm living someone else's life. Things have changed so drastically since I left home for the Imperial City and now…

Martin's grip tightened. "Tell me you can't do this, and I'll find someone else." The words fell like dust motes on my ears, delicate, unassuming…but ultimately unwelcome.

Though I appreciate the sentiment. "Who? I'm the best bet. We all know it – I've got the most experience." Leaning back slightly, but not letting go of him I examined his face, as if I could burn the details into my mind. "But thank you…for offering me a way out."

He traced my cheek with his thumb, then along my jawline. "I wish you'd taken it."

I didn't smile, but felt my expression soften. "No you don't. If I were to take the easy way out…I wouldn't be the girl you know." Too much rueful truth in this to ignore, Martin closed his eyes, bowing his head.

"Or the woman I care for." The words were softer than feather down, and...precious to me.

I nearly _melted_ right there, because although the words were carefully chosen to remain unintimidating, his tone said otherwise. His tone said 'I love you'.

I didn't think – I did what I almost always do. I _reacted_. Rising up onto tiptoes, aware of the feel of the way it felt to shift against him, I snaked a hand up, to bury it in his hair near his neck, pulling him down to meet me. It never felt so safe to find myself tangled up in someone else. While I may have started out clumsy, Martin isn't the only quick learner.

Yet, for a moment, a brief moment before I closed my eyes, to let myself enjoy the sensation of being so close to him, I thought I heard the rush of frail mortal life, fortified by something diminished, but stronger. It disappeared a moment later as the smell of bayberry worked its way into my nostrils, spicy, clean and…._him._

--A--


	58. Chapter 58

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Fifty-Eight

--A--

Emperors do not _walk_ to battle. They _ride_. Because I am _The Gatewalker_, I'm not allowed to walk either. I _ride_ on the emperor's _left_. Jauffre's on the right, but honestly, I can understand him not walking. To tell the truth, the only reason I agreed to this horse-riding down the mountainside crap – I'm a healthy girl, with two sturdy legs, and horses on a sharp decline make me nervous, thank you very much – is because I was _prevailed upon _by Martin and his damn silver tongue.

No, not like – damn – I mean he asked very nicely, convincing me to say 'oh, all right. Dammit' within three minutes. Ugh...I need to get my mind back on the problems at hand.

_Did I mention it's __snowing__? As high up as we start out, it's __snow__ing_ – which means in Bruma it's probably _raining_. Which means muddy ground for fighting, if the attack happens today or tomorrow.

Quite apart from which, the steely skies and the snow melting on my exposed face don't make for pleasant thoughts. Right now the water matches my mood: dark, depressing, cold slushy thought sliding down my mind's walls like too much sleet against a window, leaving watery tracks of cold discomfiture.

I also don't like how careful the horse has to move –I'm going to simply _slip_ over his neck, falling face first. Bump and scuff my cute little nose, though the cold-weather gear I, like the others, am wearing is far more protection against falling than anything else. Blades may use Akaviri weapons, but the cold-weather clothing is all Nordic.

Even Martin's, though I notice the conspicuous glint of gold thread, coy winks from his collar and cuffs. Additionally, everyone is already in armor – in case we don't get there fast enough to hash this out with Countess Carvain. She is _not_ going to like this – in fact, she might even tell us what to do with our plan, then Jauffre will have to run her through. Then we'll be down _two_ government leaders. See what I mean about 'gloomy, slushy thoughts'?

Where was I? It was something positive…oh, armor. Martin lurched uncertainly in the saddle, head bowed enough so I could barely see a glimpse of him from beneath his heavy hood, it doesn't look as though he's having much better luck than I am, huddled down covered to the nose by my jacket's hood. Standing in the stirrups I reached forward to take hold of his elbow, kicking my horse forward. "You all right?" I demanded over the moderate winds.

"Fine!" He called back.

Kicking my horse so it rode even with his, I having fallen a bit behind, I leaned over. "Armor giving you problems?"

He shrugged, but the gesture looked laborious. Yes, Martin's practiced moving around in his armor while I've run missions, but he hasn't practice _riding_ in it. While his horse may take the weight with some disgruntled annoyance, it can't keep its rider steady if the rider is unaccustomed to horse _and _armor. Simple as falling down – I mean, I've got my usual chainmail. Either Jauffre wants me able to fight well, or someone's put the bug in his ear _I like my chainmail. _Not the standard issue stuff the Blades like.

So I have no trouble riding or doing anything else in it.

Still, seeing him in his gold edged, rust-colored full plate before we all bundled up to leave was a pleasant picture in and of itself. He looks good in the colors, but more than trivial aesthetics, he looks like a competent fighter, sword and all – even if he doesn't like the circlet Jauffre insisted upon shoving over his brow. Not a crown, more something my Nordic ancestors might use to keep their hair out of their faces.

_I'll bet it's colder than a Skyrim midwinter. Headache-inducing co_ld. My ancestors knew enough to line the band with thick woolen material – these Imperial imitators _don__'t_.

--A--

The campsite picked out for us was not knee-deep in mud as I expected. Only ankle-deep, which is not great, but it's not as bad as it could be.

As we approached the ridge of tents sprawling before the gates of the city, a horn-call went up, heralding the arrival of reinforcements. No doubt they think we hopped down from Skyrim. Are they going to be disappointed. More Blades met us, having come down the night before to set up, taking the horses and helping us with our wraps. I felt vaguely like a midwinter present – wrapped tightly and thoroughly.

Whoo! Heavy clothes, covered in sleet – not a nice combination. "So, from here we go to the…" I prompted once I'd unwound myself from my wrap.

"I'll take Martin and a small band to the Chapel," Jauffre cut in, having more trouble than I did, wiggling out of his wraps. "You go to Countess Carvain, bring her to the chapel. We'll explain the matter."

"So she doesn't take your head off," Martin murmured, squeezing my shoulder.

"Thanks." Seriously – thanks. You know, he's really starting to look like a prince – I don't want to call him an Emperor yet, nor 'would-be' anything. Which actually makes me wonder if maybe…maybe I'm setting my hopes on someone I can't really have. Because as the Emperor, he'd be expected to make a certain kind of match with a certain kind of girl.

Still...

"Ailirah?"

I did the only thing I could do – apart from telling Martin what's really wrong. I hitched a fake smile up on my face, blinding in the lie it told, and shrugged. "I'd better get going – we need to get on this."

Martin nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on mine. My mask dimmed slightly. He sees through it. He knows it's a lie. I'm sorry, but… "Later?" He asked, more as an invitation than a proper question.

Nodding – later is better – I turned, trotting forward towards the city. Turning at the gate, only enough to peek back over my shoulder, I saw the blurs of Martin and Jauffre still standing where I left them, Martin facing me, Jauffre apparently talking to him.

Blast this bad weather, making me feel all moody and depressed.

--A--

Countess Carvain gave the appearance of expecting me. The woman has one of the best glacial 'what sort of bad news are you?' looks I've ever seen in all my life.

Bowing slightly – curtseys simply don't work when you're wearing armor – I straightened.

"I expect you're here to tell me why I have an army of Blades camped out on my doorstep." Not a question. The countess rose former chair, glowering down at me with a sort of expression indicating a willingness to reserve judgment. For the moment.

"I am." As she strode down the steps I realized what I'd taken at a distance, for a grey overdress was actually a knee-length coat of mail, arranged over her blue gown. As she stepped, I could see black-leather boots, though she wore no weapon.

"Good. Begin."

"I'm here to invite you..." under the Countess' disapproving gaze, I found my own fortitude come back by the bushels. A swell of pride in my breast in delivering this first semi-official message. So it'd better sound good. Dignified. "To the Chapel of Talos to meet the Grandmaster," the Countess grimaced, "and my lord, the heir-apparent, Martin Septim."

Jauffre already pointed out Countess Carvain would not like battle lines on her doorstep, and she would not like the plan – but curiosity about Martin would bring her where we wanted her to go. Aside from which, we want people to know who and where Martin is."You…" The Countess' expression resembled a child's drawing: large circles for eyes and mouth. "There…"

There _is_ another Septim. Yes.

"Yes. The heir apparent is present, and wishes to discuss the battle for your city with you, at this time." I responded evenly.

Clearing her throat, Countess Carvain pulled herself back together. I suppose a Countess can't afford to look completely shocked for long. "You avoid answering my question."

"Your Grace," I drew myself up to my full height. "Would it not be much better to hear the plans from the man who prepared them? Rather than risk giving you bad information in these troubled times, I invite you to the source."

"So, the notorious Gatewalker is merely a herald?" I recognized the tactic at once.

"The Gatewalker is and has ever been a servant to the Empire. If I am required to bring a message, one may safely suppose the matter is far greater than it first appears." I inclined my head. That sounds good, right? "So again I ask you to join my lord, and the Grandmaster, at the Chapel. Time draws short."

The Countess and I stared at each other for a few moments, before her mouth turned up at one corner. For a moment she looked much less forbidding. "I've heard you favor an Akaviri weapon." She waved to a servant somewhere in the wings.

"I do. And no, you can't have it." Countess Carvain is a well-known collector of Akaviri relics, and not everyone knows Frostreaver (or Silent Partner previously) is a reproduction. A fake. She had Brutus go after an artifact, once. "But if you require further proof of my identity, I shall summon it. Provided your guards don't skin me alive."

"A counterproductive use of their time," reaching out she took from her page an Akaviri katana, buckling it around her waist, cinching the ornate belt tightly.

She's wearing a _corset_. She doesn't mean to fight, but she's prepared to, should need arise.

Raising my hand, I felt the summons answer, Frostreaver appearing in my hand.

"Tang Mo – but not authentic," Countess Carvain sniffed, promptly losing interest.

Well, what did I expect? She's an entusiast. "It was made for me by Einar the Hammer," I answered mildly, starting for the door in the Countess' wake, surrounded by her troupe of personal guards. "It's better than authentic."

"Nothing is better than authentic, Gatewalker, though I'm sure it's an admirable weapon." Countess Carvain answered. "Now, tell me about this Septim."

"What do you want to know?" Not what I think personally, I'm sure. You don't need to hear me gush.

The Countess made a sucking sound through her teeth. "What manner of man?"

"A good one. He was at Kvatch. When it was attacked." The words fell from my lips, cold as the sleet burying Cloud Ruler Temple in slush.

"Oh…" For a moment Countess Carvain looked like a woman faced with battle before her home, not like a Countess at all. In the look she cast me, it occurred to me I should never have let the armor fool me. She's armed and warded because she thinks the last ditch efforts will fail, and she – unskilled, untrained, wholly vulnerable before a Dremora horde – will fight and fall.

Untrained or not, she won't, can't abandon her city. But she sure as hell can't defend it with her own hands. Sympathy welled like spring sap in a tree. "I wouldn't worry for your city, Countess. I can't promise the losses to be low, but I do not think it will share Kvatch's fate."

"You needn't pretend optimism, Gatewalker." Her tone bit like the chill breeze her city is known for.

"I'm not pretending, Countess. If your city falls…all hope will have died."

The Countess nodded as if in thanks, but not belief.

Suit yourself – if Bruma falls, the likelihood is I'll be dead (I want the Nordic funerary barge), Martin will be dead (please, no), Jauffre will be dead (…yeah, I don't want him gone either. He needs to stick around a few more years.)

Of course, if we all die, all the world will follow Bruma into ashen piles, and pits of shattered fragments of ravaged lives and acid-etched dreams. Overhead the clouds began to break up over the horizon, the promise of a clearer night, showing pearly blue sky in patches.

Before us the Chapel of Talos loomed, more like a fortress, some bastion of safety than a spiritual place. I'm not a devotee of Talos, but I don't mind hoping he'll keep an eye on his descendant.

The warmth of the chapel surprised me, though less than the fact it no longer looked like a chapel. Pews stood stacked precariously against the walls, many low beds with cheaply got white cotton linens lay at the ready. Long trestle tables at the fore of the chapel sported many healers, priests of different sects, and alchemists. The scratching of mortars and pestles, the soft prayers of those kneeling as near to the fore as they could, and the palpable smell of fear, unease wove together with old incense, dust, and a sense of calm expectancy – like the old woman waiting fearlessly for death.

Because she knows it will bring her back to her husband.

My body moved without conscious thought, bringing me to keep some ten feet back from Martin – but it was only perfunctory. Not only do I know it caused him some disquiet for me to do it, I know he didn't expect it, either. However, the Countess bowed her head regally, exempt from such self abasement by virtue of her bloodline. I say 'abasement', but the truth is, it's a show for everyone else. I'm the Gatewalker. If I take the time to kneel, then they know they'd better watch their manners.

My mouth moved on its own as the chilling allegory rattled in my ears. The young fear death, but I've never had to actually _wait_ on tenterhooks for it to finish the slow, buzzard-like circle towards me before. "Countess Carvain, the Heir Apparent Martin Septim, and Grandmaster Jauffre." My hand motioned towards one, then the other.

"Your Highness," Countess Carvain's voice remained soft, but strong.

Martin scowled at me, in a way plainly saying 'thanks a lot' before returning his attention to the Countess.

It's nice to be noticed. Stepping back a few paces I settled myself to watching the preparations for the influx of wounded, dead and dying. At least they have some warning.

"Ailirah?" Jauffre sidled over to me, discreetly removing himself from the conversation between Martin and the Countess. "We discussed it earlier," 'We' is evidently Martin and Jauffre himself, "If you'd rather not sit through the chatter you may wait at the Fighters Guild. I know where it is, we will pick you up before we leave the city, if you'd like."

"He won't need me?"

Jauffre shook his head. "No, I don't think so. You've made the right impression."

"Good."

My move to withdraw caught Martin's eye. '_I'll wait for you,' _I mouthed to him.

Martin nodded without losing the track of his conversation. Withdrawing I felt again the cold sensation of losing him. Some might argue 'you can barely touch him without asking permission', or 'you're only starting out now, you shouldn't be so clingy'.

Maybe they have a point. But he means a lot to me, more perhaps, because he was a friend before anything else, and he's had time to grow on me. We knew each other back before the Heir Apparent and the Gatewalker technically existed. Back when they were two people: Martin, priest of Akatosh and Ailirah of Leyawiin, Fighter's Guild.

The unseasonably chill winds, gusting from the mountains stung for a moment as I stepped free of the Chapel, pausing to stare unfixed at the sun-beams dancing down like golden silk veils. Automatically my feet took me towards the Fighters Guildhall. It may even have fighters in it, if anyone felt up to volunteering.

It might even have my brothers, though I'm not sure what I could say to them, or them to me, now I'm gone. I don't know, maybe it's the weather talking, but I do feel as though leaving the Guild was leaving my family.

Still, I can always leave, and I'd like to know who all showed up.

--A--

"Ailirah!"

I barely had the door open, but my heart stopped for a moment in my chest. Julius, on his feet, looking as though he'd expected me, beamed from a large table crowded in the entryway, cards in one hand, his sword in arm's reach.

However, behind my brothers were…

"_Daddy_!" Bounding forward like an otter ready to dive I launched myself at Einar, who caught me in one massive arm, hugging me suspended some foot and a half above the floor.

"Mother!" Bellona rose to her feet as Einar put me down, so I could hug her as well.

"My girl," planting a kiss on my cheek, Bellona let me wriggle free to glance at my brothers over my shoulder. "Hi guys."

Four weathered but otherwise happy faces fell, smiles sliding off like mud from a window at this lack of enthusiasm.

"Hmph. You should be happy with 'hi guys'." Uncle Modryn appeared in the doorway, glowering at Jules in particular. He took one look at me as I aborted an attempt to run up and hug him as well – mostly because I know he acts like it annoys him, but really, he doesn't mind. "See?" He looked me over again, "on second thought – I'm going to start call you Rocks. I told you, let her off her leash for a couple weeks and she'll be better of it. You look ready to mangle a Daedroth on your own." Modryn's never very nice when he says 'I told you so'.

Uncle Modryn _would_ think the Dremora-ish look an improvement. Dunmer have different ideas about Daedra in general, but Uncle Modryn has the same ideas about those Daedra trampling the Empire as the rest of us. "Yeah, I've been working up to it…"

Modryn clicked his tongue as if to say 'hey - don't hug on me'. It defies his macho attitudes.

Nodding with an expression of forced seriousness I waited for his posture to relax before pouncing, flinging my arms around his neck and – it made him growl – kissing his cheek. "You're the best, Uncle Modryn," I whispered in his ear.

Modryn's skin turned a little darker – I'm one of his very few soft spots, and even then, it's not so much a soft spot as a tiny chink in the armor. "Get on with you," he grunted. "Off, off, off." He chivvied me away, though he didn't manage to hide the way his mouth turned up at the corners.

I found Julius staring at me.

"Are you going to ask her if she wants to be dealt in or not?" Brutus, ever practical, asked as Roge scooted to one side, plunking a chair between Bellona's and his own.

"Yeah, I…" Julius held up his hands in awkward 'I'm sorry' fashion. "I…"

"We got a letter from your Grandmaster," Brutus interrupted as I took my chair between Bellona and Roge. "Saying you were working on covert missions for the Blades. So, you can imagine what it did to shut Jules up. Then we get another note saying if we want to see you, you'll take our apologies in Bruma, before the big fight." Cards flicked from Brutus' hands as Markos passed me a mug of mead. "So naturally those two," he nodded at Roge and Markos, both of whom scowled, "see the word fight and they're off like Hircine's dogs."

"What Brutus is saying," Jules cut in, possibly hoping to diplomatically re-maneuver the conversation, "is…if you want to come back to the Guild…your spot's still free."

"Ahem." Brutus cleared his throat.

Jules winced. "And…I was wrong to kick you out. You're not a liar. Never were…I should have trusted you."

Yes, you should have. "It's okay, Jules," I didn't look at my cards. He brightened, hopefully. "But I don't think I'm going back."

Uncle Modryn snorted this time. "Course not – why'd you want to? Blades are better business. Suit your talents better. And…" The significant glare he gave my brothers – which Bellona and Einar were ignoring in favor of a too-thorough inspection of their cards – indicated I was better off without the four of them breathing down my neck. "So, meet anyone yet?"

The smile on my face made my bothers look queasy. "Maybe. Give me another card."

"You don't want to look first?" Roge asked hopefully.

I beamed, even more catlike at him. "Why? Gimme the card."

I usually win at this game anyway.

--A--


	59. Chapter 59

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Fifty-Nine

--A--

The reunion between my family and myself wasn't what I'd call happy. Granted, we're all happy to see each other, I feel much better knowing they believe me, now. However, I know once Martin walks through the door with Jauffre, they will assume – as he's the one in my age group – he's the one they need to shout at for stealing their little sister. Especially the way Jules keeps looking up at the door.

"I fold," the moody pronouncement came with another wave of depressed thought. It's taking _forever_. I don't know what I'm so eager to get on with – we're all going to have to wait for Mehrunes Dagon to make the first move. Still, I suppose I won't miss the palpable tension in here.

"So," I addressed Bellona, "are you all staying here?"

Bellona shook her head. "Of course not – it's too far away from where they say the fight will break out." Bellona caught her tongue between her teeth. She's got a good hand – she always does the thing with her teeth when she'd got a good hand. "Another card, love," she waved to Markos, the dealer. "No, we've got several tents outside the Gates. We came here to meet up with you."

"How'd you know I'd…oh." Jauffre must have mentioned it, he did suggest I come down here, instead of going back to the gates with everyone else, or waiting for Martin to finish with the Countess.

"Countess Caro _still_ hasn't forgiven you, you know," Jules grunted.

This doesn't bother me much, though I conspicuously avoided meeting anyone's eyes. Not exactly my most dignified moment. "No, I don't expect she has. Or will – but it _was_ a matter of Imperial security," the mead swirled around in my half-empty mug, reflecting the lights in tones of warm amber at odds with the threatening weather outside. I don't really want this stuff, I can't afford to indulge in honey-colored mind-hazing bliss, I've got to work tomorrow. Plus, I don't have the same tolerance as my brothers do.

"What's the matter, do you not like the taste?" Brutus rearranged his cards, though his eyes remained on me.

"It's fine. I don't drink like I used to." Setting the mead down I gave it a push towards the center of the table, watching the raised patterns on the mug dance with shadows, eerily reminiscent of Sanguine's statue. For once, I successfully stopped thoughts of the conversation from filling the space between my ears. I don't need his bullshit right now.

"Good." Bellona nodded approvingly. "I imagine you don't miss the headaches. Or the strange dreams."

"Nope." No, I've actually found a whole lot of new 'strange' dreams which are much more pleasant, but much more prone to make me blush. I don't want to talk about it, I don't want to think about it…lest I start blushing, and the questions of 'what's the matter, are you sick?' start floating around.

The door opened, sending in a cool draft, the door filling first with Jauffre, then with Martin. Both looked rather worn, tired. I'll bet the Countess can argue with a chatty Hlaalu lawyer if she needs to.

Markos and Roge were halfway to their feet before Martin filed in behind Jauffre, his eyes falling unerring only on what – I should have realized it earlier – would interest him more than the big hairy half-Nords at the table, or the short half-Nord with the high hand of cards.

Damn. I hate losing.

"Is it time?" Pushing my chair back I prayed they wouldn't want to stay and chat. Roge's eyebrows are knitting together in a predatory glare, Jules' smile has become fixed. Leaning forward, I pounded a fist on the table to get everyone's attention. Down boys! Heel! Gyah.

"Yes, we're heading back to camp now. You'll forgive us for stealing your sister." Jauffre's eyes hardened slightly. You know, I may not have to threaten to kick anyone's ass this afternoon. What a remarkable change of pace.

"We're in the middle of a game," Markos answered back, unfazed by the glacial looks Jauffre was dishing out like cheap gruel.

"It looks to me as though Ailirah has folded." Martin spoke up, his tone pleasant.

Einar and Bellona exchanged arched eyebrowed looks I wasn't sure how to interpret, but both looked at me, rather thoughtfully.

"Ailirah…" Jules turned to me, possibly hoping I would come in on his side, as I normally would.

If it were anyone else standing in the doorway. I've got to admit, I respect Jauffre in a way I never managed to respect Jules. And as much as I missed my family, I don't want Martin running around without me on hand. In case things get bad, he's taking an awful risk with this, and it sits about as well with me as those chocolate-covered hot-peppers.

It's an acquired taste. No, I never acquired it. Brutus did, though – he could shovel those things away by the bowl.

"Ailirah, we do need to get back to camp." Jauffre continued, as if Jules hadn't spoken. When Jules opened his mouth to protest Jauffre cut him off impatiently. "You gave Ailirah the option to leave the Guild or leave the Blades, and she has made her choice, Guildmaster," the words stayed polite. The bite in his tone could have taken Jules' leg off at the knee. "Ailirah is a _Blade _now, and the Blades are camping outside the city, to protect our _emperor_."

Jaws dropped around the table. Brutus, however, shrugged, as though to say 'she could do a lot worse that joining the Blades'.

Gee, thanks. Nodding, I walked over to Jauffre's shoulder. I'm not sure Martin expected Jauffre to give my brothers the benefit of the information – I'm still waiting for Jauffre to pick up on the subtle exchanges of affection between Martin and I, before he tells me off. I don't know. I don't see Jauffre as anything more than mildly disapproving of such a thing.

"Anything else you wish to say, you can do so once she's seen to her duties. I assure you, she's quite competent in them, you won't have to wait long." Jauffre inclined his head towards my parents. "Master Eidanson, Madam."

Ouch. Martin's fingers brushed against my back, slight pressure on my chainmail, ushering me towards the door. "He's got…" Martin trailed off, once we rejoined Cyrus and Baurus, again acting as security.

"Yes, he does," I nodded. Baurus had my attention, glancing first at the Guildhall, then rolling his eyes. I nodded – yeah, they're always pretty 'she's our sister, what are you doing with her?'.

"And…"

My attention returned to Marin like a compass needle to north. "Uh huh." Sneezing into my forearm as I took an overlarge breath of the clear, clean air, after so much time the dusty smoky Guildhall, I twitched my nose. Ugh. "Yes, Markos won Goldbrand through Boethiah's Tournament of Ten Bloods and Roge…he did something stupid for Sheogorath awhile back. After he got rid of that dumb hat."

"Wabbajack…?" Cyrus grimaced.

"It's okay – Bellona made him _swear_ not to use it irresponsibly." Well, he won't bop Martin with it – _I_ won't let him. I _am_ a Blade, after all. It's my job to discourage such…rudeness. Believe me – changing someone into a bunny rabbit is _rude_.

Jauffre snorted, by Martin resisted a smile.

Why? You look good when you smile!

"Well…okay, he might bop someone to make me laugh, but not _often_." I shrugged guiltily. "Some people make cuter rabbits than others." It's true. Though, I should be fair, it's not always a rabbit they end up as. It's simply my favorite.

"Oh yes?" Martin arched his eyebrows, with every impression of politeness.

I can tell what the real question was: do you think I would make a better rabbit? He's teasing, but I don't mind. In fact...why not? I need a boost to my humor. He looks like he could use one too. Still…wrap him up in rabbit fur? Could be interesting.

"I dunno. You look good in fur, but I don't think you could pull off the cute fluffy look very well." Yes, a soft rabbit skin, like the old Nords used to wear bear. Bear is warm, but it's also kind of oily. Not nearly as attractive, shaggy as it is. The old Nords could wear the shaggy fur well, as they were somewhat shaggy themselves. There's a reason we have stories of the old Bear Men, who could change between men and bears in the early years. Imperials tend not to be nearly so hairy...

I'm babbling. I'm babbling to myself.

Martin shrugged. "Well, I suppose I can't be good at everything."

I'm not even going to say anything to that. It'll only get misinterpreted, and I'll wind up blushing. I do _not _need that right now.

"Are they always so…stifling?" Jauffre demanded.

"Worse." I couldn't help but snort.

"No wonder you left." Jauffre grumped. It's nice to have him grump on my behalf, instead of grump at me.

"Aw. They're not too bad if Einar and Bellona, or Unc…Modryn are there." Let's not confuse people with how a cranky Dunmer like Uncle Modryn wound up with a sweet half-Imperial niece like me. Still, it's true. They're usually worse when unsupervised, but only when they're together. Separate them from each other and they're more relaxed. I still haven't figured out why.

"How did the meeting with Countess Carvain go?" I won't lie – I'm eager to get the conversation away from my brothers.

"She agreed, in the end," Martin shook his head. "She doesn't like it."

"No, I imagine not." Shrugging, I crossed my arms before my stomach, then uncrossed them realizing this gesture makes me look insecure – not something I want to make obvious.

"I want to have a look at the field of battle, where the mages found the magical disturbances," Martin addressed Jauffre who either didn't notice, or chose to ignore the finger-strong link between Martin and myself.

"I expected as much," Jauffre looked at Baurus and Cyrus. "Take Ailirah as well."

"Yeah – I want to see what the ground I'm running on is going to look like." If it's full of potholes and mole tunnels, I want to know well in advance. Nothing puts a crimp in the plan like someone spraining her ankle.

"Have you ever done this before?" Martins' question threaded into my ear, a faint lingering waft of something half forgotten by some, wholly unnoticed by others.

"What, fought in a battle?" Martin nodded. "No. Not like this." My grip on his fingers tightened. It's okay. We have to believe it's going to be, or we'll all panic when the first Gate opens. "I got to Kvatch in time for cleanup, not the actual battle."

"Kvatch sent reinforcements, you know." Jauffre fell back a few paces to join the conversation. "Matius sends his regards."

"Who all _did_ send soldiers?" I cocked my head. I saw banners for a couple cities, but I expected more at the time.

"Everyone. The Gate Crew closed Gates near the major cities in return for soldiers. We're still waiting on Leyawiin – the Countess is still very angry." Jauffre gave a snort which might pass for a chuckle.

"She's not _angry_, she's _embarrassed_. I don't know if she noticed, but the spell hit me too." I growled. Stupid Sanguine.

"What spell?" Martin asked.

"Something Sang…" I broke off, turning crimson. I can feel the blush surge up my face as though I were a teapot, and beginning to steam, and Martin's look of unconvincing innocence (are you having Sanguinite thoughts about me? Because if so, I'll choose to be rather pleased) did nothing to alleviate it. "Later." I cut off the sentence tersely. I'm blushing…oh, it's _really_ noticeable…"Anyway." I prompted.

"Count Hassildor sent both soldiers and mages – very powerful destructive mages. The Anvil guild sent several of their Restoration-adepts." Jauffre continued listing off who sent what - and the fact Count Indarys' son not only – like a fool – tired to close a Gate himself, he nearly got himself and his friends killed.

Our crew rescued him, but the way he tells it the story is drastically different. If I ever meet the _s'wit_, and hear him lying about it, I'm going to belt him in the mouth.

Whoa – annoyance surge.

The gates loomed up before us, though my sudden flare of temper had my whole attention. It wasn't until we were halfway through the field of tents I realized why. Something on the air, leaving a vaguely metallic taste I my mouth – but nothing like blood – something slightly corrosive, acidic, tangy…

Daedric magicka. I can _taste_ it. Now I stop to think I can feel my burns tingling with…_anticipation_.

"Ailirah?" Jauffre turned as Martin stopped, running out so slack in our arms.

"I can taste it." Even as I spoke, I found a strange sensation of spicy powder on my lips.

"Yes, you'll be sensitive to it. It'll be less bad once the magicka is maintaining the Gates, not hanging around waiting," Martin answered promptly.

"It's so _weird…_" Starting forward, I found the skin on my back tingling as I neared what felt like a bubble, slackening off as I passed away…then again. "How many more trips into Oblivion before I turn into a Dremora?"

"You can't turn into a Dremora, you're human," Martin corrected, but very gently. "I wouldn't recommend any more than four. Even then, the damage will worsen. You shouldn't need to make four crossings, Ailirah."

I nodded at the reassurance. Part of me thought back to Miscarcand, the feeling of _strength_ as I pounded the lich's face unmercifully. The _power_ rushing through my arm as I forced the spell into the highly-flammable dead flesh. The feeling, for a single moment, sharp as a dagger slitting fingers, of _I can destroy you_. And I wasn't afraid.

--A--


	60. Chapter 60

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Sixty

--A--

We were supposed to do something constructive. As to what something constructive constituted, neither of us was really sure. I think it's Jauffre's way of keeping us out from underfoot. Even here, I can feel the closest bubble of Daedric magicka, a lurking slaughterfish in deep muddy water. Martin sat in a folding chair some way back, head tossed back, eyes closed as if counting stitches in the tent's roof.

"You didn't camp much, as a priest, did you?" The sturdiest piece of furniture in this tent is the table – it's big enough for a council of war to gather at it…but at the moment there's no point. Word's spreading: three Gates to Oblivion. One Master Gate (it's actually Great Gate, but no one cares much about semantics right now). Picking at the surface, I wonder how long it would take to carve a chipmunk into the wood. With a spoonhandle.

"No, but I'll bet you did."

"Oh, I love camping." Small talk, small talk. I don't know what's worse – forced conversation or unfaltering silence, sucking everyone caught in it into mires of dark, unpleasant thoughts.

"Tell me about it." Martin appeared at my shoulder, climbing onto the bench I occupied, before slouching forward on the table, much as I'm doing now. He's actually taking a bit of a risk. He's not wearing his armor like he should. It's lying in a heap over on a rug – I wish it were so easy to slough off a hard day, though some would argue 'how hard has your day _been_?'.

Hard enough.

Anyway, magical armor is easier to get in and out of than the traditional stuff. While he might be able to move around in it, he's certainly not used to carrying the weight all day. Grimacing he absently squeezed the muscles in his shoulder, stiffened from carrying the weight of armor, from not showing the discomfort.

Wordlessly I got to my feet, resting my hands on the tightened, knotted muscles. "I can do something about this, if you'd like." The words were soft with uncertainty – years of habit are hard to break, and habit is established you don't get touchy-feely outside the family.

"Then…I'll need my other hand back."

The silence ceased to press so stiflingly as I began to work the knots out of Martin's shoulders. There's a benefit to working with the Fighter's Guild most of your life – you develop more than just calluses, and the strength in hands and arms comes in handy for working the knots out of someone else's shoulders. Bellona used to get pretty knotted up too – so do I, but I'm learning to use my little magicka to heat the muscles to the point of relaxing.

Hm. Why not? I'm confident enough not to burn anyone. Focus…nice and easy. Deep breaths, in and out, and let the spell flow like fine wine. Warmth flowed through my hands, making my fingertips tingle with it, through the fabric of Martin's shirt, eliciting an 'mm' as the muscles gave up their knots.

"All done." I gave his shoulders an extra squeeze, but didn't step away.

Martin's hand tangled around one of mine, pulling me forward until I loomed over his shoulder, and he could rest his head against me. Taking this as an invitation, I slid my arms around his shoulders, like a winter wrap, resting my chin on the back of my hand. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." My chin continued to dig into the bony back of my hand, my eyes half-closing. Damn this chainmail. "The chainmail's not a problem is it?" I asked belatedly. It's probably digging into him every bit as uncomfortably as my chin is into the back of my hand.

"I think we're safe for the moment."

Defying year after year of 'wear your armor in a dangerous, or would-be dangerous situation' I released its summons, promptly rebalancing myself. This time, I really did close my eyes, enjoying the warm bulk of him, something strong and sturdy, comforting on a bad day.

"I doubt what troubles you is as easily fixed, as weary shoulders by gentle hands." He turned slightly, which put my eyes against his neck, his hair trickling my eyelids and face. It may not fix my worries, but this is _nice_.

"It's just…" a heavy sigh escaped me, one coming up from my very toes, carrying with it the weight of the world.

"One of those days?" Martin offered gently.

I hate that phrase 'one of those days'. Well, more accurately, I usually hate it when _other_ people use it – because it's either a dismissal, or something less pleasant. Letting go of Martin's shoulders I straightened, my back cracking slightly. "I suppose."

Martin reached back – an uncomfortable angle – pulling me to sit with him on the bench, facing him instead of the table. "It looks like a long, tiring day full of doubt, to me."

Wow. Spot on. "Nice – what do you do for an encore?" The joke died like a Dremora falling out a Sigil Tower window. Wrapping an arm around me, so my cheek rested against his shoulder, he pulled me the last couple inches across the bench, so our hips pressed together. "When you've been where I have, you learn a few things that aren't socially unacceptable."

I didn't stifle the laugh fast enough. I needn't have bothered to try, for Martin gave a chuckle himself. "I'm not usually this clingy," I announced lamely.

"I like you clingy." Came the semi-indulgent response, as his other hand rested between my shoulders, thumb moving in comforting circles around one of the bones in my neck.

"Yeah?" Not quite what I expected to hear.

"Trust me."

"I do."

Martin's hand vanished from my back, reappearing to draw my face towards his. "Then trust me now."

Our lips met like drops of water. I do trust him. And I love him. And I don't want to lose him.

--A--

"We'll be all right." Martin announced some time later. It's getting dark outside – the tent's grown gloomy, lit brightly on the inside by our magelights, currently tracking around the perimeter of the room. I also didn't miss the word 'we', coupled with the tone speaking more of us as a team rather than two parts of a greater whole.

"It's the waiting killing me. I hate waiting for a fight." We still sat on the bench, though now we both faced the table and the scribbles on parchment, crude sketches of the field in front of us, half-drawn plans (and several silly doodles running up and down the sides). My clingy mood not having vanished entirely, my outlook at least was not nearly so bleak. "And if this goes badly, stay away from my brothers. No," I held up a hand, "not for the reason you're thinking. When they get into a big fight, when they're outnumbered, they'll make a square, picking off enemies. Next thing the foe knows, there's four of them, back to back, and a lot of dead bodies between here," I poked with my quill, "and here. I've seen them do it – they'll have Dremora packing in, and it'll get messy." Like picking tulips. Do a lot in a hurry because they're probably in someone else's garden.

"Ah. You're not worried about them?"

"No," I answered after a moment of consideration. "Any one of them is a match for a Dremora. Even two or three. I'm worried about you, and maybe lucky shots."

"So says the one going into that Gate alone." Martin reached up and smoothed my hair – difficult as it's braided back into a thick queue. Still, I appreciate the gesture.

"I never said I was going alone," I answered, perhaps a bit more smugly than I have a right.

"No?"

"No – I actually planned to take Brutus and Uncle Modryn."

"You said…" Martin stopped, caught between confusion and amusement.

"Yeah, I said 'this is how my brothers do it'. Einar will probably stand in for whichever one I take." He will – and Bellona will be a good ways out of splatter range. When Einar starts swinging his war axe or forge hammer around, you don't want to stand anywhere _near_ him. You'll end up covered in blood, skull, and flying bits of brain goo. Or sparks form hot metal, depending on which it is, and on what context.

"It's good to know I shall never grow complacent in matters of semantics."

"Eh – don't use all those big words. You know I'm a goon." I pulled a face, which he rewarded with a gentle tug on a straying curl. "You know…I don't think we're going to have to wait the full eight days before the Gates burst open."

"No?" his tone's too level to be as calm as he's pretending.

"No. Within the hours between now and arriving, I've noticed I feel the magicka leaking out more strongly. It makes my skin feel papery, like I've got a healing sunburn."

"Well, you do hate to wait." Martin answered.

"Yeah. I hate to wait."

--A--

I wound up leaving shortly afterward, Jauffre wanting to consult with Martin, Countess Carvain, Captain Burd and various necessary people. The only other place I knew to go, not knowing where most of my comrades were waiting, was my family, easily discernible against the fires. "Mind if I join you?" I asked, stopping short of Einar.

"This is still your family, Lirah," Einar scooted over, so I could sit between him and Bellona.

"Yeah. Where's Uncle Modryn?"

Brutus snickered. "I think he's off trying to pick up some girl."

"I didn't expect to see you this evening," Bellona said, putting an arm around my shoulders.

"They're planning out for the battle – tactics, arrangements of the men, you know." Shrugging I accepted a mug of what turned out to be cold tea from Julius. "Thanks Jules…I want to know where you get this stuff."

He shrugged. "Around."

Brutus snickered, giving Jules a dig in the ribs. "He met a _girl_."

"Oh really?" The man who kept me from finding a sweetheart in the most innocent sense of the word for almost ten years? Do tell.

"Thanks Brutus." Jules hunched forward, looking sour.

"Who is she?" I sipped the tea, enjoying watching Jules squirm.

"Why aren't you consulting with them, then? I thought you were part of the Grandmaster's cadre?" Jules counted, sounding both suspicious and as though he felt I ought to be included.

"I'm not. I'm not a highly-ranked Blade. I happen to be a go-to girl." I corrected. "Besides. We've got other plans for me."

"Like what?" Jules pressed.

I glowered at him over the rim of my mug. "I'm not going to ruin your night, Jules. Leave me alone about it."

"He's just worried," Roge put in, frowning.

"And I appreciate it," I kept my tone as neutral as possible. "But I'm six and twenty years. You don't need to coddle me like an infant."

Jules gaped.

"Break out the hard stuff," Roge moaned. "I need a stiff drink."

What? I finish growing up and it's a bad thing?

Shrugging, I stuck with my tea, but the conversation did not return to Martin, or Jauffre, or the impending battle, or anything else that might get my hackles up, or theirs. In fact, a couple of tankards of mead for the boys later, and I contentedly sat with Einar and Bellona as my brothers warbled one of the old Nordic hero-songs.

Nords are known for fine voices. I have a strong voice, but no ear for music. My brothers on the other hand, have very fine voices. They could pass for choirboys if they weren't so scruffy.

Unfortunately, this lack of conversation allowed me to muse to myself, feeling the press of the Daedric magicka nearby more accurately than ever. Finally, I left, only to find the tent I was assigned to far too close to the field to allow me any real sleep. I tried, tossing and turning on my cot for over an hour.

Finally I got back up, slipping out so as not to wake Caro, or any of the other lady Blades, to wander about restlessly. The night overhead offered clear skies, the promise of clear skies tomorrow, and warmer temperatures. Finally perching on a rock outside the gates of Bruma, I pulled my cloak more tightly around myself, the chorus of the song Brutus and the others sang earlier whispering through my lips, stolen from me on the breath of the wind, whipped off into the blue-black night.

Not long after, a rather disgruntled-looking Uncle Modryn joined me, but said nothing. Just sat there, watching the sky above, pensive and silent.

--A--


	61. Chapter 61

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Sixty-One

--A--

Midmorning found me standing quite alone, on the edge of the camp, my skin burning, my heart pounding, pumping blood through my body as if to the beat of a war drum. I'm burning. Everything's burning. I can almost _see_, or feel as if I _should_ see the breeches between our world and theirs. I didn't sleep last night, just dozed on my rock. Uncle Modryn wound up volunteering his shoulder for a pillow, as I discovered upon waking in the dewy sun-bright morning.

Strangely enough – after I started to doze, I could swear I heard him , as he used to do when babysitting me, murmuring stories of 'our better ancestors'. I always loved those stories. More than the stories themselves, I liked falling asleep to the sounds of his voice, because I'd usually dream of heroes, and villains of the early days (and Tricksy Kyunah, my favorite). I suppose we all have our moments.

"Are you all right, Lirah?" Brutus' hand descended on my shoulder. "What the..." he snatched his hand back, feeling the heat radiating from me.

"It's close." I answered, hoarsely. In his face I saw discomfort, but not fear. "I can feel the…" My breath caught. For a moment I couldn't breathe, but heard, perhaps in my own head, a screaming rush of sound and color which nearly knocked me off my feet. My hand found Brutus' arm, fingernails scrabbling against the plate. "They're coming." No sooner did I say the words than I _felt_ a 'bubble' of Daedric magicka pop, oozing power into our word disgusting as pus, viscous as troll fat. "The Gate's are opening! Get the others out here. _Now_!"

Pushing past Brutus I took off at a jog. Most of those intending to fight already clustered near the field, within springing distance, but Martin remained closeted with Jauffre and Captain Burd. Pushing past Cyrus, still shouting about people getting to the fore, I threw open the tent.

Jauffre jumped but Martin merely surged to his feet, something like fiery determination burning in his eyes. The shine of light hazing my peripheral vision made my eyes burn. "_It's time_." The words burned my lips as I spoke. The Daedric urge to strike out at Martin, against the few drops of blood that changed his nature from human to something more, remained firmly at heel.

Martin grabbed his sword and was past me, pulling me by the elbow before Burd and Jauffre fully registered what I meant, though Jauffre followed quickly. Where his lord goes, he goes, with Baurus and Cyrus falling in behind us. "Have they actually opened?" Martin asked.

"No, but the seals are breeched. I _felt_ them give. There," I pointed off to the south and west. "That's the first, then there's two more, there and there. They'll keep them close together, but additional bubbles will swell if it looks like we intend to close any of the three anchor-Gates," I babbled, certain of my facts as I'm certain I'm a woman, "so the Daedra that spill forth can jointly protect the Gates. The Great gate…I don't feel it."

"Do you know why?" Martin's voice shook with nerves, apprehension, the rush of adrenaline as he pulled his helmet on.

"Why?"

Uncle Modryn's voice mingled with Jules' as they barked orders at the Fighters Guild.

"Because it's too big. You're actually standing in it. The eye of the storm," came the composed answer. "Ailirah, wait," he stopped as I pulled ahead, something in the back of my head, something Daedric, screaming for the fight. It didn't matter who, or why, or anything, so long as there were foes to attack, a mission to do, a master to serve…

Which was when it hit me, really. I'm not just feeling like a human made Dremora, I'm beginning to think like them, to see the world through their paradigm. Or at least I am for the moment – this could simply be a reaction to the Gates. Personal wants don't come up for consideration – they'll obey Mehrunes Dagon, draw his war machine, screech his praises. They'll follow wherever he leads or directs them.

Sounds like a human army to me.

"Ailirah!" Martin's hand closed on my arm, effectively stopping me. Turning back to face him I waited, vibrating like a plucked string on a lute. "Take someone with you." I nodded – I mean to. "Be careful." His hand touched my face, his gauntlets cold against my flushed and fevered skin. "And…" his eyes said it all.

I shook my head. "Don't say it here. You need your focus…so focus on what comes after…"

Martin nodded, though I can tell he'd rather have gotten it off his chest.

"I know, Martin. I really do know," reaching up I touched his face, as he'd touched mine. "Come on," with this, I strode forward, finding my brothers clustered near Jauffre, who'd moved ahead in the intervening minutes. Einar, Bellona and Uncle Modryn stood on the other side of Jauffre's cluster of men, the soldiers, mages, and willing hangers-on arraying themselves in _the_ shakiest battle line in history. Drifting off to one side of the group, as Martin joined Jauffre, I positioned myself near my brothers.

The plan is simple – wait for it, Lirah. Go in, get the stone, get back out. And they _will_ wait for you.

The first Gate exploded into our world like a tear in the fabric of reality. I've never seen one manifest before, but I didn't flinch, merely raised an arm to protect my eyes against the rush of whirling, biting dust, the blast of hot air from Oblivion sent our way, carrying the reek of burned stone and smoking meat.

Many cried out in shock. Shouted oaths mingled with invocations of various deities.

Raising a hand, Frostreaver filled it. "Hold steady!" I barked. My brothers took preemptive steps forward, weapons leaping into hands. Goldbrand glittered in the light, now clouding over, the sky turning blood-red overhead. Julius' great sword The Fell glowed slightly blue, as dark clouds blossomed like bruises. Roge with his greataxe Nameless brooded intent on the Gate as purple lightning forked the sky, never touching ground. Brutus and his double-ended axe Skyrim's Teeth, the bastard cousin of my Frostreaver, braced for battle as the air turned warm, windless and stifling.

"If you want to say anything, now's the time!" I barked to Jauffre, though more to Martin. Beneath his helm he looks every inch the Emperor, proud and courageous – a leader of men. I think this may be the turning point, where I can no longer think of him as a Sanguinite, a priest, something undefined, or in terms of a vague future which might never come to pass.

In this moment, possibly for the rest of the time we both have, he's _Emperor_ Martin Septim, with or without the coronation. A grim smile crossed my features, pride at my own involvement in all of this, whatever quarter the involvement might fall into.

Martin strode forward, for a moment putting his back to the Gate. Down near the base I could see movement, small Daedra beginning to creep out, like stray dogs, hopefully nosing the smell of meat wafting from a campfire. Don't give them your back Martin, it makes my skin crawl with unpleasant possibilities.

For a moment, it looked as though he might freeze up. Carefully fingering Frostreaver's newly sharpened blade I nodded once, aware of the faintly blue glow the weapon emitted. _Get it done. _Whether he saw the gesture or not, Martin steeled himself. When he called out, his voice carried like thunder over Cheydinhal. "Citizens of Cyrodiil! The Empire will stand or fall by what we do here today!"

Very likely. But we're not going to fall. You've got me, my brothers, my _parents_ and my uncle. This makes up an eight-person war machine right there. And we've got you.

"Will we let the Daedra do to Bruma what they did to Kvatch? Will we let them burn our homes? We will let them kill our families?"

Oh, nice touch - the staggered line of fighters, almost but not quite ranks of them, shifted, grumbling in agreement. Particularly those who were _at_ Kvatch, who gave out a weakened cheer for Martin Septim (or, as one of them called, 'Brother Martin').

"We will not! We make our stand here, today, for the whole of Cyrodiil!" Martin picked me out in the crowd. My blood chilled in my fingers and toes. He's going to make a great orator. "We must hold fast until the Hero of Kvatch, our Gatewalker, can destroy their Great Gate. We must kill buy the necessary time!"

Hey, whoa! Don't drag me into this, I'm in deep enough as it is! I'll drown in the deep shit we're all in!

Heads turned towards me, so I made a show of nodding in agreement. Still, I like what I read into that 'our Gatewalker' comment.

"Soldiers of Cyrodiil! Do you stand with me?"

Cheers broke out, shouts of approval for Martin and for the Gatewalker. The loudest of which did not come from my brothers, however the hands of the two closest to me made a point to grip my shoulder, or my arm in silent support. I didn't need anything louder than that.

Wait till you see what I'm walking into.

"Brutus?" I asked, under the noise of the shouts, and the whip of arrows arching black overhead to bury themselves in the preemptive herd of small Daedra.

"Yeah, Lirah?" He sidled closer.

"Come with me?"

Brutus' hand closed tight on my chainmail clad shoulder, squeezing so the rings dug in gently. "You lead, I'll follow."

The first Dremora bounded out of the Gate, clannfear in tow. Form here it looks as though the clannfear have leather collars, attached to chains, which the Dremora hold, and are detaching, but I could be wrong. It's a distance from there to here.

Cries of 'steady' and 'make them come to us' ran along the lines as the Dremora loosed the clannfear, which the mages and archers picked off, sending them crashing to the ground or whipping them about like cheap rag dolls.

I felt it before it happened. The second Gate erupted, proceeded by the same sensations as the first. This time, however, I expected it, so the sensations lacked the original shock value. If I feel these gates so strongly, at this range, what will it be like when the Great Gate finally opens?

"Lirah!"  Caro, Rols, and many of the other Blades were already moving forward, to counter the massing Daedra, and their Dremora handlers. "Get it done!"

"Save me the leftovers!" I barked back, to the amusement of my brothers.

"Hey – who's the blonde?" Brutus asked, his brows knitting together beneath the iron circlet keeping his hair out of his eyes.

"Caro, one of my Blade friends." I answered. "I wouldn't mind having her as a sister."

"Nice try." Brutus reached over, as if to ruffle my hair, but thought better of it. Pretty red hair? Tough gauntlets? You tear my hair, I'll yank out your eyebrows.

"Uncle Modryn!" I barked, darting towards him the instant it saw him start forward, after the Blades, eager to join the fight. "Wait!"

He stopped, looking harassed. "Not now – there's heads to bash! I've got a quota to fill!"

"Where I'm going there'll be more. Do you want to come with me?" I asked quickly.

"You mean, join the secret plans?" Modryn's eyes narrowed.

"Yeah. They don't' want me going alone. I figured, you and Brutus."

"Not Jules?" Modryn frowned.

"If you don't want to go…"

"_Nchow_!" Modryn looked horrified at the thought of passing up such an opportunity. "I thought all this time away from the Boxes of Rocks screwed your head on right, not _backwards_, girl!"

"Then wait a bit. _Third Gate_! Brutus!" Brutus ambled over, followed by the rest of my brothers and my parents, all of whom were waiting for the third Gate, and the surge of Daedra. Einar scowled at the Gates, his massive battleaxe, at least my height, resting comfortably in his hands, Bellona and her rapiers at the ready.

Most of the soldiers were, letting the Blades hammer at the advance ranks before the legions of foot soldiers poured out.

The third Gate exploded violently, to the point I actually braced my feet, and held Frostreaver close to my body, as though weathering a gale. The charge of Daedric magicka in the air is palpable, like the burning fumes of cheap cologne.

Martin appeared at my shoulder. "What are you still doing here?" I demanded.

"Keeping an eye on you! Remember," he gripped my shoulder, making sure he had my undivided attention, "if the Dremora get their war machine free of the Gate, the Sigil Stone becomes immaterial – we won't be able to save the city."

My attention drifted towards the third Gate, to the hoards of Daedra pouring out, and the massive gap between the two Gates clustered to one side, and the third. Bet I know what's going to fill the gap. My stomach trembled with anticipation and anxiety.

"Listen to me!" Martin gave me a sharp shake, earning glowers and 'watch it, tiger' from Roge. "The Daedra will make a race of it, their war machine onto our side of the Gate, or you to the Tower. So get to the Tower as fast as you can, get the stone. Don't worry about the siege engine – you can't stop it, so don't try."

"I understand." I nodded. "I'm taking Modryn and Brutus with me, remember what I told you about tactics."

"I remember." Martin nodded. He put a hand o my head, a priest's gesture. "Go with the blessings of Akatosh, Ailirah." His eyes said, 'and my love'. "Keep an eye on each other."

I nodded, glancing at Modryn (who nodded in agreement) and Brutus who looked somewhat thoughtful. You know, I think Martin might actually have Brutus about won over – he always was the most sensible of the four, even if Jules is the smartest.

"Hey!" I called as Martin turned to join the rest of the soldiers. "Save me some leftovers!"

Martin waved to indicate he heard me, drawing his katana in a practiced motion. The next thing I knew, a ball of lightning arced sizzling and spitting from his other hand…_right_ into a snarling Dremora halfway across the battlefield.

I love this guy.

"Nice aim." Markos grunted, a little shocked. "You never said he was a mage."

"You never asked." I retorted. "You'd better get a move on, or all the good Dremora'll be spoken for."

"Can't have that," Roge freed Wabbajack, holding his massive axe one-handed, the staff in the other, looking like overlarge children's toys in comparison to the bear holding them.

Lookout Dremora – or you'll find out what it's like to be less than a foot high and cute. Oh, the indignity of it. I mean, I grew up with the short-cute bit but for something that tough and ugly…

The tentative smile on my face vanished. "Here it goes." Energy pulled in, like powerful lungs taking in a deep breath before a shout. Even the air, previously so still despite the sounds of the battle below, curiously muffled to my way of thinking, began to blow again, pulling in all directions towards the gap between the Gates. Something many fighters did not fail to notice, and many fell, having looked the wrong way at the wrong time, distracted by the sudden change.

Hefting Frostreaver I found breathing difficult, my skin hot and clammy, my mind fogging over with a haze of 'go fight something _now_' and 'oh hell, what did I get into?'. The Gate ruptured like a wound, an arrow erupting from a man's chest, blasting heat, dust, the smell of sulfur over us. Even several of the Dremora stumbled this time, caught off guard as the wind reversed sharply.

"He's sending you in there!?" Brutus roared in my ear.

"_I volunteered_!" I screamed back at him, eyes blazing hot in their sockets, feeling unaccountably..._predatory_. "Let's go!"  Again the words burned my lips as I took off at a jog, making a beeline for the Great Gate.

The noise of the battle filled my ears as I got closer, a racket unlike any I ever experienced. Weapons clanging off armor, war cries, the screams and shrieks of the wounded or dying. The cacophony of humanity mingled with the roar,. the harsh voices of the Dremora, reveling in war and savage butchery.

I couldn't see Martin, couldn't pick out Jauffre, or Burd, or anything else except Brutus on my left, Modryn at my shoulder, whacking with his mace whenever permitted. Though, I could hear Roge's inarticulate bellows quite clearly. "Just hit it!" I barked as we closed on the Gate, pausing only long enough to cleave a Dremora's head from his shoulders with a shriek a harpy might have prized.

The heat of the Great Gate blasted. Halfway there the nose of the siege engine pushed through the fiery mirrorlike surface, a steel centipede of ill-intent, monstrously wrought, pushed by teams of Dremora, swords across their backs, single-mindedly driving the contraption forward, to the sound of loud drums, keeping time for their efforts, and the shouts of taskmasters, all in the harsh, uncultured-sounding tongue of the Deadlands.

"Our Lady Kyne…" Brutus breathed reverently, in shock at what he was seeing.

The Gate jostled as I broke into a full-out sprint, the last thing I heard before crossing over was Modryn shouting something probably jubilant. He always did love a good fight.

--A--

Note: Tricksey Kyunah is not canon – it refers to a story, or series of stories Modryn told Ailirah as a child. Sort of the Dunmer version of Anansi, Coyote, Loki, etc. - the trickster of lore, only more successful at such tricks than the aforementioned characters, because of the leanings of Dunmer culture, where such cleverness would be praised.


	62. Chapter 62

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

--A--

Chapter Sixty-Two

--A--

The blasting heat of Oblivion hit me like a stiff wind in Cloud Ruler Temple. All you do to weather it is bend your head, and keep moving. This two-step plan wavered as I got my first good look at the Siege machine, pushed by team after team of Dremora –two to a team, one on either side – and nearly got stepped on by one of them, who hissed at me, indicating plainly he would much rather bite off my ears than push the heavy piece of shit into the mortal world.

"Yeah, try it asshole." I've got a big sword, a big brother, and an Uncle with a big opinion of his capability in a fight. You don't want us kicking in your teeth.

"Lirah!" Brutus grabbed me by the collar, hauling me back from the Dremora. "They will _eat you alive_." His eyes remained fixed in partial admiration on the dedication of the Dremora to their task. If I lived here, and had the threat of Mehrunes Dagon's displeasure breathing down my neck, I might show some obsessive, mindless dedication myself.

Well, time to make like a fly in the ointment and ruin someone's plans for the day.

"They're more interested in their siege machine." Obviously, Brutus…whoa. I can actually feel the…the otherness seeping into my pores. I shouldn't snap at him – it'll only make me feel worse when this is over.

The shouts of the Dremora overseers in their black robes – most carrying whips – belted out over the landscape. The words remained unintelligible – apparently stints in oblivion don't give me an understanding of its languages. The intent, however, was perfectly clear: speed it up, boys! The tempo of the drums increased sharply. The grunts of the Dremora straining, the muscles in their necks corded, veins bulging as they struggled to move the heavy equipment all sped up, and gained additional measures of discomfort. Many made a staunch effort not to look at Modryn, Brutus, or myself. "This way."

"I'll bet they'll have a welcome wagon waiting for us!" Modryn sounded positively delighted at the prospect. "Not a bad place for a vacation. Reminds me of the more desolate reaches of Morrowind."

I picked up the pace, jogging towards the Tower. The pound of Daedric drums worked its way into my head, resetting the rhythm of my heart, so the blood in my veins, the thoughts in my head pounded to the steady rhythm. "Damn…they just don't quit!" Brutus' voice drifted forward to me.

"They have the breath of their master scorching at their ears. They don't dare quit." Sweat trickled down the side of my face as I changed the direction of our winding path. The bridge I initially sought to use turned out to have collapsed halfway across.

That's all right. After awhile, you get the hang of navigating the Deadlands. There's a certain similarity in the settings. I didn't begin to notice until I started _expecting_ to see it. Must make for easy travel, for the Dremora.

"Lirah! Hang on a moment!" Brutus called as we began closing, genuinely closing in on the Tower.

"Suck it in, Bait!" Modryn's lighter footfall – he doesn't wear such heavy armor as Brutus – pulled ahead.

I couldn't help smirking. Modryn used to joke that with my brothers as tight-knit as they are, and liking to work as a team when they would, they had a great set up. A three man team to do the fighting...and the fourth spot was for the guy who got to act as bait, to draw an opponent or creature out. Brutus got picked. _A lot_.

The sound stopped Modryn and Brutus. I half-expected it, though I can't think why. The winding of a horn, spiraling loud and strong into the air. A warning. An introduction.

Turning a corner I shouted, bringing Frostreaver forward, scoring the Daedric cuirass which filled my vision. _Clang_. My elbows jarred as I blocked. Modryn gave a roar. The clash of mace on mace rang in my ears like harsh words in a heated argument. Frostreaver spun, blood spewing as the Dremora reeled, a long crimson line appearing across his throat. He fell back, crashing like doom itself, scrabbling at his throat.

Pivoting, my eyes found the weak spot in the armor of the Dremora faced with Brutus. I didn't need to bother. Brutus gave a shout, a sound which came up from the soles of his feet, startled his opponent, accompanied by a swing of Skyrim's Teeth. Brutus attacked with the off-end of his double-ended axe – much as I like to do with Frostreaver – ripping into the Dremora's chest. Metal screamed as the axe went in, and groaned as Brutus yanked it free. Turning sharply, he used his momentum to shatter the arm of the Dremora seeking to sneak up behind him. The limb visibly folded before the other end of the blade buried itself in the Dremora's head, as the creature flailed.

The blow struck high. Brutus doesn't like aiming for the head. It's too messy. Still. It's effective.

Speaking of sneaks. The Dremora coming in from barely inside my peripheral vision flinched at the last moment, not having expected me to react so quickly. Jabbing with Frostreaver, I caught him under the chin. The blade twisted as the Dremora went slack, crumpling to the floor. Lifeless as week-old adventuring gear.

"Nice stop-thrust!" Modryn slapped me on the back.

"I learned from the best." My own breath burned my lips. The first Dremora still lay there, half-alive, struggling to breathe. Strutting over to him, feeling my walk more like a glide than usual I looked down at him. For a moment, the briefest moment, I truly pitied him. Seeing him as a man, in his own army, dying in such a manner.

It's what separates me from them.

With a grunt of effort Frostreaver raked solidly across the Dremora's exposed neck, effectively decapitating him.

"You could have left him," Uncle Modryn stopped the head rolling, catching it under his boot. "He's definitely no mer, and certainly not human."

"But _I_ am." Human, that is. "No man deserves to die like that. I won't leave even a Dremora to suffer in such a manner." The words came out in a snarl.

Uncle Modryn arched his eyebrows, clearly taken aback.

Brutus patted my shoulder, silent approval for my stance on the suffering of a living creature.

I ignored it. I'm the one who's got to sleep with this sort of thing racketing around in the back of my head, like a child throwing a tantrum. I won't do anything to make it worse. It's not as if I've seen any particularly underhanded tactics from the Dremora so far.

The underhanded stuff comes from Camoran and his cabal.

"They know we're coming, though." Brutus' tone indicated he had hoped to sneak in.

"Of course they do," it took effort to keep my tone even, "but they knew we were coming since the Gate opened. How could we not? That was just to let the ones in the Tower know attack is imminent."

"You've got a good insight on Dremora," Brutus' tone held worry. More worry of losing his little sister to some red-eyed stranger.

I craned my neck, peering over my shoulder to meet his eyes. "I'm learning. Defenses are usually stiffest on the first floor, and in the Sigillum Sanguis. I'll bet they've got something special set up. Just for us."

I would, if it were me. Didn't we leave Einar and my other brothers on the Nirn side of the Gate? Sounds like 'something special' to me.

Looking back across the Deadlands from the Tower's massive doors – thrown open, a welcoming dark embrace - my blood chilled in my veins. "We need to hurry." The Siege engine looked between a third and a half way through the Gate.

"You're the one taking a breather," Modryn panted, his face slick with sweat.

Beside him, Brutus strongly resembled a massive steamed lobster.

"Just thinking of you, Modryn." Plunging into the darkness of the Tower I gripped Frostreaver tightly.

To my surprise, only one Dremora stood waiting for us. Huge, even by Dremora standards, he could look Brutus in the eye. "You are not welcome here." He rasped, as though the words in my language hurt his mouth.

"You're not welcome on Nirn." My eyes followed the curve of the room, keenly aware of something amiss. "And you're not good at ambushes, either. Call them out." My eyes fixed upon the Dremora's again.

The Dremora shrugged, his black robes rippling, the clink indicating he wore some sort of chain beneath it. This one's got to be a mage. I can feel the same sort of magicka coming off him, as I felt in the bubbles which preceded the Gates. "I'm going to rip out your spleen. After I eat your still-beating heart."

Charming.

Dremora melted out of the darkness, three in robes, at least twice that in the standard heavy plate. To my surprise, one of them might even be female. Standing at least half a head shorter than any other Dremora, the build on her was slighter too –though the dual maces she carried hinted at an extra measure of ferocity.

"So I've heard." Leave me the big one, guys. He's got a bit mouth, and I'm going to shut it for him.

I leapt forward, fully expecting to graze the big one – startling both sides of the fight as I did so. Except he wasn't there when his chest should have taken the blow. Instinct alone spun me around to find Dremora closing in, their boots ringing against the floor.

Frostreaver spun and arced in a glitter of cold blue-silver light. It's a weapon _made_ to excel when one is surrounded. The trick is learning to watch both sides of oneself. I've had enough experience to learn it, but the Dremora, well, I don't think most of them have ever seen a Tang Mo weapon before.

Brutus certainly had his fight under control. In fact, he had the Dremora I wanted to tackle. Modryn's colorful curses and slurs told me plainly he was still fit for the fight, behind his veritable wall of Dremora.

I felt the blow up to my shoulder as I caught a longsword against Frostreaver, throwing my attacker to the left. As he flew free of the block, Frostreaver sliced into his cheek, leaving white ice crystals on the edges of the wound.

Few injuries bleed like a head wound.

The Dremora I turned to suddenly sailed away from me, the body of a comrade crashing to him, throwing him to the ground, both of them skidding across the boot-scuffed floor.

"Lirah!" Brutus' near-panicked voice brought me turning to check my blind spots. I barely had time to gasp as my mind went blank.

One of the casters melted out of the darkness, a mudcrab's eyestalk out of chaotic waters. I didn't hear the words. Couldn't feel the single spell in the miasma of Daedric magicka roiling about in the room, so easily confused with the permeating stench of blood.

The spell hit me full-on – all I could do was raise an arm to shield my eyes. I heard shouts of shock, but not the words. I couldn't even scream.

The flames roared in my ears, terrifyingly warm, close, my skin heating, nearly blistering from the intensity of it. There's no pain. Why isn't there any pain?

Hazarding lo look, the flames licked around me, clinging like nervous pets; curling around ankles, dancing upon shoulders, hissing away from Frostreaver's blade, blazing cold in reaction to the heat.

When I waved a hand to dispel some of the flames manually, Dremora-annoyance rearing its head in such a way as made me realize I hadn't _really_ felt annoyance so far. Merely a kind of focused manic energy derived from adrenaline and necessity. It exploded now, so powerful it left me feeling like a child with a tamed ogre on a lead.

Brutus and Modryn both goggled, as well as many of the surviving Dremora. Modryn swore softly, then turned sharply, slamming his mace into the head of one of the stunned Dremora, as if to make sure he wasn't dreaming. "Well. Can't you do anything better? I'm only one human, after all." My words broke the lull in the fight, though the two remaining casters fled, heading up the stairs, robes whipping after them, leaving their more muscularly gifted comrades to clean up…or be cleaned up.

Apparently darkvision isn't the only benefit Oblivion's foisted on me. As evidenced it also makes me pretty fireproof as well. Hmm. Useful, but the shock value only works once.

The fight wound down quickly, the extra strength and ferocity of my unbridled Daedric episode proving more than adequate.

"Are you all right…hot shit!" Brutus jerked his hand away from my chainmail.

It _does_ feel a little warm. "Careful. Look, before you ask, yes it's a long story, no we don't have time. I'll tell you when this is over." This, of course, meaning the entire Oblivion Crisis. I suspect only Modryn realizes what I actually meant.

Stopping I turned back. "What?" Modryn readied his mace.

"The female Dremora. Who got her?" I know _I_ didn't.

"They have females?" Brutus gaped.

I couldn't help rolling my eyes. "Yes, Brutus. They may not breed like humans but I'm sure they all have needs."

Modryn snickered, both at my tone and the face Brutus made. Whether his grimace was for my blunt phraseology, or the thought of Dremora coupling, well, I'll leave it up for debate. If I didn't already have my eye on someone, and if I didn't suspect it would cause me serious problems, I could genuinely appreciate Dremora physique. These guys are built pretty solid, after all. Hauling all that plate around all day will do that to a man.  
I also suspect, however, they're into recreational pain. Which I'm not.

"Well, if I didn't kill her, Brutus didn't _notice_ her.,"

"Hey, I don't mess with Dremora," Brutus protested, fervently.

"And you didn't get her," at this, Modryn shook his head. "She's either gone up ahead of us, or is sneaking around down here. Modryn, take the vanguard. I don't want to take any chances."

Modryn chuckled.

Maybe _he_ should find himself a nice Dremora-lady. Birds of a feather.

Wow, now _that _was a Sanguinite thought.

--A--

From the windows outside the Sigillum Sanguis, tired bodies found new motivation. Fighting our way to the top of the Tower left us all sore, tired, and prone to snarling at each other. My head pounded, shoulders aching from the combined weight of my mail and of Frostreaver. I can only imagine the trouble I'd have if it didn't have enchantments to lighten it to something I can safely use.

And still no sign of the stray Dremora.

However, the with the Siege Engine getting dangerously close to crossing fully into our world, tactics fell to the wayside as Modryn, Brutus and I burst into the Sigillum shouting. Dull pain hammered around my eyes.

Four more crossings? Three at most. I feel like my body's at war with itself. Or, more accurately, like my very soul is at war with itself.

The female I'd concerned myself with stood in the center of the bottom level of the Sigillum, maces ready. She's had time to recover from her flight, apparently. However, lining the next level up, overlooking the bottom level stood more casters.

I nearly laughed. This is either the easiest fight I've ever had, or the very hardest. It all depends on the casters, and which spells they chose. They can make life really difficult…or they can die very quickly to magical weapons.

The female Dremora twirled her maces dexterously. Modryn whistled appreciatively.

This is _not_ the time. Bravo for the show, and all that, but I'm in a hurry.

I think everyone here expected me to wait for the demonstration to finish, maybe exchange a few witty remarks. No. It looks to me like they're just buying time, stalling us. "Sprint for the Sigil Stone – we don't have time to fight them all."

Darting forward, Frostreaver knocked the twirling maces out of their paths in the air, knocked the Dremora off balance moments before I drove the blade through her thinner than usual plate. She gasped, eyes bulging in non-comprehension as she looked at the shimmering blade entering her middle.

Maces clattered to the ground as her red eyes found mine. Her mouth curled into a snarl, no doubt framing some insult before her eyes rolled.

With a speed I didn't think I had strength for I planted my boot against her, pulling Frostreaver free to sprint for the stairs.

Brutus and Modryn already gained ground, hacking and smashing a road through the Dremora and their summoned minions. Trying not to waste my time on the clannfear or scamps – though they swarmed at me, occasionally vanishing as their caster fell to my brother or Modryn – I slogged forward, more hampered by the summoned creatures filling in Modryn and Brutus' wake.

Apparently the Casters decided if they were to lose the stone, lose the Gate, they'd have _something_ – or some_one – _to hand over to their master. Modryn and Brutus had their backs to the stone, hemmed in by casters.

I was still feet back, struggling against the tide of summoned creatures and the nimble flame atronach guardians. These last two didn't worry me so much as the fact I _couldn't get to the Stone_. "Just take it and go!" I screamed, Frostreaver finally finding purchase, cleaving one of the flame atronachs nearly in half. "Just go!"

"_No!" _Brutus roared, his next attack sweeping two of the casters aside like rag dolls.

Modryn, however, lunged for the Sigil Stone, hissing in pain.

The other flame atronach took advantage of my distraction, her fist – disproportionately heavy for her size and build – struck me across the shoulders. Falling forward with a thud and clatter, I batted away an enterprising scamp before the rest could swarm over me, like ants at a picnic. The struggle to get to my feet took more fortitude than I would have liked, but I did stand up again.

The ground shook as the Gate destabilized.

With an almighty roar Brutus leapt forward, dragging a protesting Modryn – still clinging to the stone – by the collar, grabbing me by the wrist just as the roof started to come down, bowling Dremora left and right as he went.

And all I could think int hat moment of shock was, '_he dropped Skyrim's Teeth'_.

--A--


	63. Chapter 63

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. I am on the road as of tomorrow, so I don't know when I will be able to update next, or answer reviews. But I *will* answer them – so please accept my thanks in advance.

--A--

Chapter Sixty-Three

--A--

When you've closed enough Gates and have a good sense of balance, you learn to land on your feet when they chuck you back out. Apparently Brutus doesn't have the same sense of balance. My feet hit the ground, jarring my knees. Around us Dremora shouted and swarmed, seeking to escape the crumbling Gate, or find themselves crushed beneath it as it shook, the fiery mirror bright surface flickering between live flames and dark nothing. For the moment they had no concern save advancing to face the human onslaught, or retreating to face their master's wrath. I suspect one is quite as bad as the other.

However, Brutus landed a second behind, off balance with Modryn shouting for release from 'you big lummox!' before we all crashed to the ground in a heap of limbs and armor.

"You've got the Stone?" I demanded, struggling free, leaning across Brutus' chest to see Modryn.

"Lirah...you've got me pinned…big brother can't breathe!" Brutus panted, his face brilliantly crimson. Scrambling onto my knees – and removing my armored weight from his chest, Modryn swore fluently in Dunmeris, before handing the Stone over. This one _burned_, but not a physical burn. Put a fire spell in a Welkynd stone, prevent magical leakage, then watch the power dance inside. Feel it writhe and seethe beneath its crystalline skin, slightly corrosive, wholly powerful.

All the size of a hefty throwing rock, or a handball.

"Great…" Shoving it into a pouch on my belt – a tight fit – I got to my feet, hauling Brutus up as best I could, aided more by his own determination to regain his feet than anything. "Thanks Brutus. I really didn't want…you know. To stay there."

Brutus expression softened slightly, before he gave my back a slap as Modryn huffed, slapped us both and charged off. The message couldn't be clearer: get on with your jobs.

In the moment I took to gauge how the battle stood, while Brutus rifled through the dead to find a proper weapon, as he'd sacrificed his to save me – a telling action, for a warrior's soul is in his sword – I picked out Martin near Jauffre and Cyrus, sword in one hand, spell in the other. I could make out no details, only the Dremora he fought dropped a split-second later, leaving him free to turn his attention elsewhere.

Einar and Jules stood in the center of a box-shaped swathe of dead and dying enemies, the living foes trampling the dead underfoot. From this distance my mind filled in the gory details, of what happens to someone, even a Dremora, when met with power and weapons the likes of which my brothers prefer.

Frostreaver is very sharp, it'll take your head off clean as a whistle if I aim right, with enough force. My brother's weapons are duller, blunter, focused more on taking an enemy out of the fight, leaving him to either die quickly of his injuries, or forcing him to give up the fight, too damaged to continue on.

Of Markos I saw nothing, but Roge had – for his own inscrutable reasons – broken further afield from the family possibly in search of more, fresher Dremora. The Gate gave a great roar – I still can't believe how _far_ from it we wound up landing – which got the attention of the rest of the fighters. Many probably wondered why the Dremora suddenly swarmed like bees.

The siege engine made a screeching noise as it seemed to suck back into the Gate's shaky frame, the smaller Gates showing similar strain, lighting arcing from one Gate to another, as if trying to maintain the connection with the Great Gate.

"Ailirah!" Roge's voice carried over the din of the battle.

The one moment of distraction, during which many began to cheer, tired, war-weary, but revitalized by the return of the group who ran into the Gate to close it, and form the compromised integrity of the Gates themselves. It doesn't surprise me the larger Gate takes more time to destabilize than a smaller one.

The Daedric magicka here's thick enough to choke…

One of the Dremora , previously downed behind Roge, regained his feet. I don't know if he was playing possum back there, waiting for an opportunity to strike with surety, or if he really had taken injury at some point, but he had use of both his hands. In the moment it took for me to catch the way he limped, he raised his mace and brought it solidly down on Roge's back. The blow whipped Roge around, or maybe he pivoted, only to catch the mace again to the chest.

It took Roge an age to fall, landing hard on the boot-packed earth. The Dremora planted a foot on Roge's chest, raising his mace high, shrieking something in Daedric to his companions, who seemed to take heart from the words - heart which before now faltered with the loss of their precious Gates.

I don't know where the scream of pain and rage came from, but it split my ears, and rent through my mind as my vision hazed over red.

--A--

Blood gushed from deep wounds. The mace punched through Roge's armor like steel through cheap tin. Tearing a tabard free from the nearest dead soldier I packed it around the wound as best I could, the smell of blood, my own brother's blood strong in my nose. The din of the battle was so much heedless noise roaring in my ears. My stomach turned at the noise I didn't let myself hear, the smell I couldn't block out.

"Dammit! Live and breathe!" I roared, anger surging to replace the cold fear nestled in my belly at the sigh to Roge's paling face. Chalky. Deathly white. "Come on, Roge!" The blood wasn't the usual crimson-bright, but darker, somehow more vital.

Weak healing spells, useful for fixing the bumps and bruises a dungeon diver like me can expect in her chosen line of work did nothing to aide Roge, merely drained me, more quickly than anything else. Roge began to shake, convulsing like a shock-spell victim. Hands appeared near my own, trying to pull back the packing I wadded against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding. "Stop it!" I snarled, batting hands away, ignoring the blood up to my wrists.

The hands stopped moving for a moment then reasserted. A frustrated huff then one hand sized my wrist, holding it out of the way. Looking up to see who was stupid enough to…

Martin's eyes blinked back at me, brows knit, the fierceness from the fighting not yet gone from his features. "Ailirah. You can't help him like this. Watch my back."

Swallowing hard I nodded mutely, grabbing Frostreaver ignoring the way the grip slipped in my hand, getting to my feet to keep an eye on things. How did I get over here? The Gate's so far away, or I should say, the ruins of the Gates. Heavy chunks of rock lay scattered like children's playthings, or piled up in massive heaps. Dremora lay strewn here and there, piled up or flung about depending on the efficiencies of their foes.

Those still living weren't interested in picking off dying fighters any longer, herded into clusters, into small groups only to die as their foes pressed in, finally with the weight of numbers. Where're Cyrus and Baurus? Jauffre, Caro, Rols…I don't see Bellona either.

So this is war.

I didn't cry but my soul screamed. For my brother, dying feet behind me. For my family, scattered, their fates unknown. For my friends, possibly lying pinned beneath some Dremora hulk, slow suffocation…

"Ailirah. I need your hands."

Turning mutely I obeyed, setting Frostreaver on the ground beside me, feeling incapable of much more than simplistic obedience to verbal instructions.

Roge looks like shit, but he's still breathing. The quality of the breaths, though, ragged and labored don't leave me much hope. "Hold this," Martin had, at some point, found new packing – I won't call it 'clean' – which he now folded and placed over the injury. I obediently pressed against the wound with both hands, holding the pad of cloth in place as Martin continued to patch Roge up as best he could.

Roge groaned at the pressure I exerted, an arm twitching feebly. But his eyes never opened, not even a roll and flicker of eyes. Just the same expression of pale-faced pain.

"Come on, Roge." My voice sounded very tiny in a big room. I barely registered sniffling, to keep from crying. One of Martin's hands closed over mine, making me realize my touch still burned with the fires of Oblivion, not the cold-fingers I expected to have.

Martin's expression remained focused, sweat trickling down his brow, the strain showing.

I found myself feeling oddly sick, drained. Overstretched. Seeing at Martin's hand, now clenched white-knuckled around mine like a vise, I realize why. He's using whatever scraps of magicka I have to augment his own.

Chaining mages, I've heard it called.

If it'll save Roge, he's welcome to every iota I've got. Closing my eyes I tried to focus, imagining power slipping through my body to pool in my hand, as if I could somehow wring out the last bits like water from a sponge.

"Martin? Ailirah!" Jauffre's voice indicated strain, relief, worry, but I didn't, couldn't look up. My eyes reminded fixated on tangled hands over the ugliest wound I've ever seen in my life, my mind fixed on one thought – whatever it takes to save Roge.

Suffocating, loud, sometimes dumb as a rock, boisterous, unruly…it doesn't matter. Years of choking the life out of me with good intentions vanished like breath on cold air. I love Roge – all my brothers. I never wanted…_this_.

The tears brimming in my eyes didn't fall.

Martin's grip vanished, as Baurus and Cyrus both shouted for medics – apparently they've made it onto the field to start saving those they can. "We've done what we can for him," Martin's voice rasped, exhausted, weary beyond telling.

With a great effort I moved my other hand, enveloping his one in both of mine, squeezing tight, feeling the chill of his fingers try to permeate my warm hands, but ultimately failing. "Thank you." The words tore at my throat as I sniffled again.

"Up you get," Cyrus hauled me, unprotesting, to my feet and Jauffre assisted Martin to his. Martin swayed slightly. "Good girl."Cyrus approved when I didn't let my knees buckle. The kneeling position had started to send both legs to sleep.

Nodding in thanks for the sentiment, more the reassurance in his tone than the words. I suspect he could say anything right now, and I'd appreciate it so long as the tone was reassuring.

"We're not done yet," Martin managed, looking exhausted. "There's much left to do…"

I didn't register the rest of what he said. I did hear the medic saying Roge needed to go to the Chapel – though I wondered how they expected him to live long enough to get there.

Someone asked about the Sigil Stone. Numbly I reached it out, holding it up in silent offering to Martin.

"No, hold onto it for now."

Obediently I returned it to the pouch on my belt, sniffling again.

"Ailirah!"

I groaned, slumping slightly, before turning to see Modryn and my parents hurrying up, the rest of my brothers in tow. I felt Martin touch my waist, so I'd know he stood behind me, his breath tickling my ear. "Stay with me." Not us. Me.

I nodded. Then hoisted together the remains of my strength, my endurance, to turn so I could see him in my peripheral vision. "I will…let me…let me tell them then I'll go with you."

Martin nodded as I made my feet carry me forward, feeling very precarious walking on two feet. What I really want is to curl up somewhere safe, quiet, warm and dark. I can't bring myself to add Martin to the equation, he's got to be more worn out than I am.

"Ailirah!" Bellona hugged me tightly, her face smudged with blood and dirt, looking bedraggled.

"Ailirah, where's Roge? We got separated..." Markos sported an absolutely brilliant black eye.

Jules leaned heavily on Brutus' shoulder, favoring one side and one foot.

Uncle Modryn looked all right, except for the bloody gash along the side of his head, his usual mohawk falling apart, jarred out of its greased style. Of all of us, his was the only face still breathing what might be called a grin, albeit a grim one.

Separating myself from Bellona, from the urge to just let Mother hold me, to make the bad things in life go away, I remained myself I'm no longer a child. I wanted to be considered an adult…well. This is it. "I'm sorry. He's…they've taken him to the Chapel. It…it looks bad. Martin's done what he can but…" I'm babbling. Cutting off my own flow of disjointed information, stopping the pleading note in my voice I cleared my throat. "I have to go. There's business yet. I'll be back to help take care of the dead as soon as may be."

Einar nodded, putting a forestalling hand on Bellona's shoulder.

Nodding back to him, appreciative of his unspoken support I turned, trudging off after Martin and Jauffre.

"Is it really that bad?" Cyrus asked, once I caught up with him.

"Worse."

--A--

I didn't know 'worse' until I set foot in Bruma. People cheered, as though the war was over, the day saved. The end in sight.

Naïve. So naïve.

Nothing was required of me, really. I think Martin simply wanted to keep an eye on me so I didn't wanted off, get killed or get into trouble. Or maybe he simply values my presence. It's easier to stand nearby, looking grim and determined, while the mind shrieks with agony-coated rage.

"Baurus?" I sidled over to him as Jauffre and Martin continued to converse with the Countess.

"Yeah?" He responded, just as quietly.

"How'd I get…get from the gate to Roge? Did you..happen to see?"

Baurus gave a mirthless exhale. "Everyone saw you clear the distance, Ailirah. Not everyone was sure what set you off, or what you thought you were doing though."

"Which was?" Perhaps the words didn't match his answer, but Baurus understood what I wanted to know.

Shaking his head he sighed again. "One minute you're up by the Gates. The next minute you're shrieking your head off, swooping across the battlefield like some kind of short juggernaut. We figured you either got hit by a bad frenzy spell, went berserk on us, or maybe both. Still – nothing seemed to touch you. The Dremora pretty much let you take whatever direction you wanted, preferring to fight more evenly matched fights." He shook his head.

Imagine, big scary Dremora scared to death of a little thing like me.

That explains it. I personally agree it was probably a Frenzy spell, but not a very well-cast one, if I didn't go on a rampage against my own side.

How's Roge doing? Is it too early to tell? Or has he…has...he...

--A--


	64. Chapter 64

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos.

**Thank goodness for Wi-Fi at hotels!

--A--

Chapter Sixty-Four

--A--

Sitting in Roge's curtained off room, Frostreaver resting against my shoulder I couldn't help letting my mind drift, waiting for the inevitable footsteps of someone coming to tell me I had to give up my vigil here at my brother's bedside in order to throw myself into the arms of Oblivion _again_. After Martin's meeting with the Countess, Jauffre declared the return to Cloud Ruler Temple –where we could all rest and prepare for my inevitable, hopefully final jaunt out of Nirn properly. Martin was spent, last time I checked, resting quietly somewhere under the eyes of Baurus, Cyrus and Jauffre himself.

He deserves it. From what I gather from the healers, Roge might have died long before he got here, had Martin not intervened. Reaching up to rake a hand through my hair I hunched, tired in body, tired in mind. Jauffre would prefer I rest, so I don't fall off my horse on the return trip, but I can't. I can't bring myself to – and the healers were kind enough to hustle my family off for a bit, so I can sit and watch in peace.

I have no idea how long ago they did so – hours maybe. I don't feel as though I have any grip on time anymore. I certainly haven't _taken_ time to do anything other than plop myself down on a chair to wait for Roge to either come around or…

Don't finish that thought. It's not going to happen. Still, he looks like he's sleeping. That's got to be a good sign…his color looks like it might be coming back.

"I can hear you shuffling around out there," I announced with as much dignity as I could muster, though the exhaustion remained prevalent in my voice. "So either tell me what you want, or go away."

The noise stopped, and a moment later the curtain opened. Turning I saw Martin, and before the curtain fell closed, Baurus and Jauffre some distance behind him. "How is he?" Martin asked. He looks better – I mean Martin, but Roge too – a little more rested.

Getting to my feet it took effort not to slouch, a detail Martin didn't fail to notice. Though, I'm not trying to hide the details. He looks pretty worn out himself. "They say he's got a good chance to live. I'm just waiting for him to wake up." I answered. "One of the healers patched me up, too, after they brought Roge here." I motioned to the room. I appended this statement because I look pretty bad myself, not having had opportunity to get cleaned up. There's blood all over me, not much of it mine.

But people who care are worrywarts. The thought made me start to smile, but the effort proved too much, so the expression died before it lived. Still, it defied the chill of worry, warming my insides. Now maybe my feet will warm up to – I'm freezing.

"Dare I ask why you're the only one keeping an eye on him?" Martin looked at Roge, possibly trying not find similarity to me in his features.

"The healers cleared the room…and Bellona. She didn't want us crowding in anyway…" which is true enough. But she wanted to stay with Roge and me. In the end, though, she wound up lending her hands to the assembled healers. "and figured I'd be first to leave, so I should be first to watch." With a bitter laugh, I shrugged. "You know my brothers, if I make a fuss they capitulate so I won't cry." Which is what I feel like doing, for no reason I can give definite shape or name to. I'd love to just bawl my head off, but self-discipline still holds firm. Thank goodness.

"Haven't they noticed you're a bit more mature than temper tantrums?" Martin asked, but with a resigned amusement, similar to what I might use on a normal day.

"Are you kidding?" I gave a short laugh then looked at him again. "It's time to go, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so. The Blades should have everything prepared by the time you, Baurus, Jauffre and I arrive. From there, it's only a matter of resting up before the casting." I scowled, reaching for my belt-pouch which hung, to my surprise, limp and empty. "I asked you for it before you came here." Martin enumerated gently. I don't remember that... "I sent the Great Sigil Stone on ahead with them, so you could keep vigil a little while."

Well, I am tired and I was extremely worried at the time. "Thank you." Reaching up I rubbed one eye with the heel of my hand. When I looked up, Martin wordlessly held out an arm, an invitation I took immediately, walking up to him – careful to hold Frostreaver so it could do no harm – leaning against him, resting my head against his chest, blocking the world for a few precious moments.

A few moments after that - and I half-dozing in my very warm, safe, comfortable spot (even if standing with Frostreaver was a little awkward) Roge stirred, then groaned. "Hey…wannabe…get you hand off my sister's ass."

"You're hallucinating, his hand's not on my ass." Not quite, anyway, and not like I'd complain if it was. "We should go – putting off the inevitable lets fear steep." Someone said it to me once, and I can't, for the life of me, remember who.

Martin nodded, kissed my cheek and withdrew, leaving me to say goodbye to Roge.

"What's he having you do now?" Roge grunted, ill of temper. "And where're my pants? Oh damn…" he'd moved too much or too far, his chest wound stopping him.

"Under your bed, and I'm volunteering." I answered blandly, as Roge – bunching his sheet around his waist – groped under the bed. "Don't move around too much. I'll see you when I can, Roge."

Roge looked up at me, swallowing visible. "Bye Lirah," he said quietly. "Don't you let those sneaky Blade-bastards get you killed."

Which is Roge's way of saying 'I love you'.

"I won't." Turning I had just reached to slip out of the curtains when Roge's next words filled the room, with the same low noise as approaching thunder.

"I love you, baby sister."

I know. I really do know.

--A--

Dinner did not go well. Losses were light, but every loss is a loss, and everyone feels it. We lost Steffan. Rols lost an eye – he would have lost more, he says, had Einar not reared out of nowhere like a water-dragon himself to decapitate the clannfear nibbling on Rols' defenseless Dremora-battered body.

Me? I was still exhausted, having rested only until supper, forcing myself to get up when I heard the call, knowing I'd regret it otherwise. Already the great hall's furniture was shifted and pushed about, anticipating the casting of the door into Paradise.

As a consequence, I was paying more attention to my food and what I had to do next, so when someone spoke about Dremora – likely in the form of calling them animals (all armies have such individuals – not just Dremora armies), cowards (they're certainly not), et cetera – I gave my attention to the conversation, blundering right on in. "They're soldiers," I shrugged, sopping gravy with my bread. "They're doing their jobs." Looking up, I found everyone gaping at me. Rols looked as though I'd just given him a good kick. "What?" It's the truth.

"Will you still be so philosophical," Rols began, "when you're picking spear-splinters from your gut?" His eye blazed, as if I had made a truly treasonous statement. I suppose it might seem that way – I nearly lost a brother, Rols lost an eye, injuries are spread both far and wide.

I couldn't help sighing. It would be easy to hate the Dremora, _because_ they're Dremora and neither man nor mer. I was taught at a young age such hatred is both very ugly, and the first stages to many nastier things. So, I force myself to see the enemy as an enemy. I'll do what I have to do – but make efforts to keep 'I hate you' out of it. Still, they nearly killed my brother.

But how many brothers have _I_ killed, since this started? These lines of though keep me from turning into some kind of zealot madwoman – like the Mythic Dawn's people. I don't want to turn into the very thing I'm fighting. "You don't win a war by dying for your cause, Rols – honorable as such sacrifice is." I sopped up the rest of my gravy. "You win wars by making the other poor bastard die for his*."

This made Rols think, but I can tell I've just ruined the evening. "I'm sorry, Rols." Getting quickly to my feet it dropped off my dishes, cast another look at the place where the door was to…to anchor, or whatever it is…before vanishing out into the night.

The cold mountain air bit my face. To my surprise, Martin was out as well, looking out over Bruma. "Hey." I thought he was still sleeping. "How do you feel?"

"A little worn out. You?"

Joining him at the battlement I leaned heavily on the low wall. "About the same. I just pissed off Rols. Classic Ailirah blunder." Martin's hand came to rest on my shoulder, prompting me to straighten and leaned into him. "Thank you."

"For what?" I can almost hear his expression crinkle.

"For saving Roge." My throat locked up painfully. I'm not going to cry. I'm not going to cry.

"You helped."

"Yeah, but if it were me alone," I craned to look up at him. "I'd have lost him. So, thank you."

Martin squeezed my shoulders. "You're welcome."

The wind continued stinging my face. Every time my mind slows down, all I see is a big, flaming maw ready to swallow me whole. Biting my lip it took me a moment to remember I'm not wearing gloves, so thumbnail went to mouth, only for me to discover I've already bitten it down. "Damn." The flaying of my lower lip resumed.

Let's face it. I'm worried. I feel sick with apprehension knowing I'm about to go in after Camoran, like a fox after a rabbit. A rabid fanged rabbit with steel claws. And more Dremora than I can shake a stick at. And they know I'm coming. More than that, I'm afraid of what it will do to me.

Against my will I started to shake, the lights of Bruma blurring into crystalline golden bubbles as the water gathered in my eyes. I have no right to get weepy. I'm supposed to…to be the optimistic one.

But images of Roge, pale and dying swam before my eyes. Of Kvatch in ruins. The emperor, and the Argonian in Dagon's shrine dead, because I couldn't do anything. The Amulet lost…and now I feel so _frail_ – but I'm not the only one, so I should stop being pathetic and just…get on with my job.

And more than that…I'm sliding into a pit, how the hell do I get out of it?...more than that is the knowledge right now, I'm useful. I'm good help, and more importantly, he – Martin - simply likes having me around. I'm a good morale booster when I'm not acting like a silly twit.

I'm afraid when things change…when he has to become an Emperor, instead of the heir apparent…he won't need me that way anymore. The enemy will be taken care of. There won't be any more artifacts necessary to get from point A to point B.

Hell. It may not even stay appropriate for him to enjoy my company, when he's supposed to be politicking and finding an empress so he can continue the…

Forget that thought – the idea of smiling at the wedding, for some nameless, faceless ninny with good political connections makes me feel sick...

One bad thought chained to another. The dry sob that tore free as I threw myself forward to slump against the battlements as the dams against fear, pain, unvented grief and unprecedented exhaustion splintered. I didn't actually wind up leaning on the battlements.

Martin stopped the gesture, deftly turning me around so he could tuck me under his chin. Struggling to keep the fact I'm bawling like a child with a stubbed toe as silent as possible, I gripped the back of his shirt. Despite the spectacle I'm making – and I am making a spectacle of myself – it felt unusually good, almost healthy to give wordless vent to the things swirling in my mind, expanding like wildfire across dry plains.

Finally I stepped back. "Oh look," I rasped, feeling slightly ashamed of my outburst, but at least now I feel more exhausted than anything else. There's not enough embarrassment to keep me awake once I settle down for the night. "I've gone and ruined your shirt." Even in the poor light the dark patches of salt water showed.

"Not to worry," Martin shrugged. "It'll dry."

Nodding my thanks I turned to look over the battlements – though Martin kept his arms loosely folded about my collarbones and shoulders. A gesture I'm supremely grateful for, and showed it by leaning back against him.

"It's one thing to give a person advice when they carry a heavy burden. It's quite another to ask how to ease it."

The words made me think. There's nothing he can really do. Tomorrow, it has to be me. I've known it for ages. It just never felt so close, or so…gloomily immanent. I hooked my hands on his, enjoying the sensation of feeling anchored by someone solid. "Don't worry about it. There's nothing you can _do_, and I don't want to drag words from you." Meaning: don't lie, or exaggerate to make it better. I need solid things like truth right now. Especially where I'm going.

"Ailirah?" Martin's whisper touched me like falling leaves, gentle and pleasant.

"Hm?"

"I love you – if you can believe that." I suppose some people might not consider such words from a former Sanguinite as meaning much.

I, on the other hand, believe him. Letting go of his hands I twisted my shoulders out of proper alignment to fasten my hands behind his back. The words felt warm, reassuring in my current cold sense of isolation and exhaustion hemmed-in dread. "I love you too. Bright lights and all."

Martin's sigh could have been relief, or amusement, I couldn't see him to say for sure.

Still, the words bolstered me, to the point I didn't even second-guess myself. I told him don't say anything you don't mean. But his expression before I went into the Great Gate said it all. There just came a time when I needed to hear the words.

--A--

--Author's Notes Appended--

This is actually an approximation of something Patton (Gen. WWII) said or is said to have said. It suits Lirah very well, but I thought credit for such a fantastic line needed to be given.


	65. Chapter 65

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. ^_^

--A--

Chapter Sixty-Five

--A--

With numb single-mindedness, I pulled my armor on over my clothes, retrieving Frostreaver from under my bed, checking the sharpness of the blades. Martin was well underway of preparing the door to Paradise when I woke, finally, and came to take breakfast.

Neither of us spoke – the buzz of the Mysterium Xarxes made it hard to keep my breakfast down, but I managed. Strange. I could almost hear it whispering at me. Dark suggestions, little darknesses trying to somehow touch the greater little darkness in my own soul, spread the corruption.

As soon as I finished cramming breakfast down, I went back to the barracks to pull myself together. Caro sat, for a while, on an empty bed, watching me check and double-check my gear, but the silence remained oppressive. I'm not in a chatty mood. There's nothing she can say to help this time.

_They know you're coming_.

They probably do. In fact, forget it – the _do_ know I'm coming, and I expect they won't let me simply traipse up to wherever Mankar Camoran has decided to sit his ass down to wait. My shoulders still ache from the battle yesterday.

I shouldered my backpack – I'm travelling light, but with provisions. No one is sure how time will move on the other side, whether I'll be gone a few hours here and days on the other side, or vice versa. So water and food both. A thin blanket, in case I need to find a safe corner in which to curl up to rest.

Mehrunes Razor remains safe at the bottom of my footlocker – I'm not taking _that_ nasty thing with me. Not where I'm going. Leaning on the wooden bunk bed I fought down the nausea of nerves, my feet and fingers tingling.

"Are you ready?" Jauffre's voice drifted from the barrack's entryway.

"Yeah." The word came out hoarse, betraying my unease. "Is he?"

"He is." Jauffre looked pale, drawn and tired.

"You should get some rest while I'm gone." Shouldering Frostreaver I headed for the door. The old man needs to take better care of himself.

"I am but one of many who will not rest soundly, until you've returned safely. It's a brave thing you do, Ailirah."

I'd call it crazy, but I appreciate the sentiment, nonetheless. "What comes after this?" Conversation, forced or otherwise, helped me ignore the rising swell of panic at what I'm about to do. The last Gate took more out of me than I thought, in more ways than one. More and more, I'm afraid to lose myself, turn into someone else. Sanguine's illusion, or something much, much worse.

"Once we have the Amulet of Kings, we'll take Martin to the Imperial City." Jauffre held a door for me, to my surprise. Awkwardly I proceeded him.

"Then he'll light the Dragonfires?" Then the nightmare will be over?

"Not quite. First we announce him to Ocato – don't worry about that part. It's all governed by formality. Then the Dragonfires, then the coronation." Jauffre sighed. "I'll be happy once the Dragonfires are lit. Anything afterwards may take its sweet time, so far as I'm concerned."

"Yeah."

"Ailirah." Jauffre stopped us outside the great hall.

Here it comes. The 'he's the emperor, you're a blade' speech. I've been waiting for this, but his timing is horrible. "Yeah?"

Jauffre's hand closed on my shoulder, strong for such a clawlike appendage. "Be very careful, on the other side," he cautioned. "For his sake, if not for you own." Jauffre nodded at the door, as if to make clear he meant Martin.

"Eh?" Not what I expected.

Jauffre snorted. "This is not the time for 'eh', Ailirah. He'd never tell you himself, but he'd take the loss of you very hard indeed."

I half-smiled. "Yes, I suppose I must be very careful then."

Jauffre patted my shoulder again, before opening the door, ushering me through.

"We should have found you a squire," Martin announced, which I suppose must be 'good morning, under duress'.

"I wouldn't know what to do with one." Besides, I don't want anyone fastening my armor but _me_. Less chance of mishaps that way.

"All right, to business?" It's sweet of Martin to give the option to procrastinate.

"Yeah." I seem to be using that word a _lot_ this afternoon. It doesn't gum up my mouth too badly. Nice and easy to say.

"As you can see, I have everything necessary for the ritual to open the portal to Camoran's Paradise," Martin lectured, motioning to the ground.

On the floor were many white chalk marks. The dust on his clothes indicated he'd put them down himself. Of course he would - not only is he the most magically qualified person here, he'll call it his plan. Within the chalk markings lay the four artifacts, the Mysterium Xarxes open in the center, pulsing malevolently.

I can feel the Daedric magicka struggling with the normal Nirn-based stuff, sizzling in the air, sparking like cat's fur against a hand.

"I've learned, since you brought it here, that the Mysterium Xarxes is both the gate _and_ the key to Camoran's Paradise. In some sense, the book actually _is_ Camoran's Paradise."

Crap. Sounds all bad to me.

"Ailirah," I looked at Martin, to show him he had my undivided attention. "the portal won't remain open behind you, but I am close enough to certain it is easier to get _out _of Camoran's Paradise than it is getting in. Are you sure you have everything you need?"

I took a deep breath, swallowed hard then nodded. "Yeah, I've got everything." My hands shook uncomfortably as I grit my teeth to stop them from chattering. I'm sure all the side effects of nerves will disappear once I'm across, but still. Right _now _I feel pretty shaky.

Martin reached over to grip my shoulder, reassuringly.

"I'm all right. Just pre-party jitters." The words came out terse, more so than I expected. "Go ahead," I jerked my chin at the chalk. "Do it."

Marin inclined his head – which made me feel a little awkward, before reminding myself I'm taking one gigantic leap of faith into a pool of 'maybes'. I suppose some people might call it heroic.

I call it damned stupid, but necessary.

I shifted back as Martin raised the door, the magicka crackling and snapping in the room enough to raise gooseflesh on even the most mundane individual. It makes my teeth buzz. The warring magicka continued to whip about the room, even once the portal – bright as a mirror with no discernable features in its depths, a miniature Oblivion Gate and just as malevolent – stood open.

"I just…walk across to it?" I eyed the stony frame and base dubiously, Frostreaver ready in my hand. It's too weird to have an _Oblivion Gate_ in our _dining room_. You _know_ that's going to mess with the food around here.

"Yes." Martin nodded, looking much as though he had the same trouble speaking as I did.

I clapped him on the shoulder, striding up to the portal. I can almost reach out and touch it…

For a moment my courage nearly failed, nearly sent me sprinting back to the barracks, to scream, to protest 'I can't do this!'

It only lasted for a moment. My foot automatically took one step forward, the other following obediently, taking me through what felt like a curtain of warm water.

--A--

My senses screamed at odds with what I _know_. The lands of Paradise spread before me, lush, green – a parody of Tamriel itself, living up to the name Paradise. Yet my mind, my attunedness to the aura of Oblivion screamed 'don't trust your eyes, it's all a lie!'.

Bending down, the grass whispered cool and soft beneath my fingers. My fingernails dragged against what felt like good earth, not the hard-packed, baked surface of the Deadlands. But my skin crawls as if with heat, shudders at the ambiance of the Deadlands.

As if every sense in myself lies, or is lied to.

"So, the cat's-paw of the Septims arrives at last." The voice boomed – though whether in my head or in the air, I can't tell. So much for secrecy. What did I say? They're expecting me. "You didn't think you could take me unawares, here of all places? In the Paradise _I_ created?"

"So what if I did?" I demanded, unsure of whether he could hear me. I have no doubts of who's talking: Mankar Camoran himself.

"Look now upon my Paradise. Gaiar Alata, in the old tongue. A vision of the past... and the future."

He can't hear me. He simply likes to hear himself talk. Well, keep talking, I'm _really_ good at tuning people out. Four brothers, they like to gabble. I hope you're ready to pay your tab, Camoran.

Hunching slightly, keeping eyes and ears open for anything dangerous, I strode forward. No need to bother with stealth, though habit kept me light-footed and careful. I suppose it's a blessing, really, though I suspect the fights here will be more…tooth and nail.

Wherever Camoran is, I don't think he left the broken path to guide people to the middle of nowhere. His sort of ego-maniac wants intruders to run a gamut – so it's best they know what direction they should walk.

I expected Daedra running around, ready to rend the flesh from my bones, or whatever it is they like to scream at me while attacking. What I found were members of the usual mortal races – men and mer – half-dressed, wielding daggers, all of which looked suspiciously like cheap reproductions of Mehrunes' Razor (I'm so glad I left that at home!). It took me a few minutes, watching them attack Daedra – clannfear, scamps, the occasional Daedroth, Xivilai or Dremora – sometimes winning, sometimes losing in horrendous fashion.

For a moment I watched, surprised the clannfear and scamps didn't fall upon the dead meat. Rather they turned, scampering or charging off, making their usual rackets.

Then, moments later, the dead bodies of the mortal-races healed, got up, picked up their weapons with grimaces of discomfort, pain, or tiredness, to roam again.

What the hell?

Still, the brutality of which the mortal races sometimes used, attacking the Daedra was no less horrific –and the Daedra too, healed, then got backup after a few moments. Looking around this so-called Paradise, I have to wonder: is this some kind of reward…or punishment? Who _are_ these people…though if I think _really _hard an answer comes to mind. Mythic Dawn Agents, either living and brought here by Camoran for his own reasons or…or perhaps the _souls_ of the departed, which would at least explain why they don't' stay dead.

There is no resurrecting those who have passed beyond…so what if this is the Mystic Dawn's 'beyond'.

Some place – a savage, brutal way to spend eternity.

Still, I'm pretty sure _I_ won't resurrect, so I'd better keep my eyes open, and move a little faster.

Turns out, veering off the path doesn't help. "In fact, I wound up walking in circles several times before I realized the problem. Sticking to the path, however, it eventually swung around the island that is Paradise - or, I'm pretty sure it's an island, like most of the outposts I've seen in the Deadlands – then led up towards a ruin on a hill. The similarity of the stone in the path, and the half-ruined structures I've seen so far all look Aylied, though the one toward which the path led looked more like the entryway to a ruin proper – little more than a door in a limestone box.

A Dremora in full plate stood before the door, well, actually he leaned against the door, looking bored until he noticed me heading up the path, Frostreaver in hand. Straightening up he watched me walking closer, undoubtedly a Dremora waiting for someone. Three guesses as to who 'someone' is.

"If you plan to fight me, knuckle up. Otherwise get the hell out of my way." I snapped. Whether this place looks like the Deadlands or not, it still _feels_ like it, a sense of which gets worse over time. The Deadlands never bring out the sweetest bit of my temper, and I've wandered around long enough to gratify said temper by snapping at Dremora.

The Dremora didn't take offense. In fact, he looked me over than gave a barking laugh. "You speak almost as one of my own people." The Dremora stopped talking for moment, as if he could feel something in the air. An unholy leer crossed his features, one which left my guts feeling cold, my hand clenched tightly around Frostreaver's grip. "Well, well well…_that_ is interesting…" and then he began to laugh, laugh as if he would burst along his Daedric seams, as if I had just told the best joke in existence, in Oblivion, or out of it. "Have you realized it, little human?" The Dremora chuckled, his red eyes fixed upon me.

I know what he's driving at. I'd be stupid not to. "Is that a request of 'please kick my ass?'?" I asked sharply.

The Dremora laughed again, a sound like sickly fingers creeping up and down my spine. "Do those who hold your string know, I wonder? The full extent of what they're doing to you, sending you to a place like this?" his tone softened, by Dremora standards, anyway. "Some friends, Gatewalker. Do _you_ even know how far you've let them shove you head into the Daedroth's maw?"

He's just trying to rattle me. Like Sanguine and his parlor tricks…but the ferocity of the thought wasn't enough to quell the doubts long nested in dark corners of mind and heart. Now, those same doubts nosed the air, hopeful for fresh air and light. "It doesn't matter, it'll all be over soon." I answered automatically, struggling to quell the rising fear in my stomach.

All my symptoms of advanced nervousness returned. Don't listen to him…he's lying through is teeth…

…isn't he?

It was as if he knew what I was thinking, prodding every weak spot in my wall of logic. "Poor little human girl. You know what this place is doing to you. Haven't you noticed how…aggressive you've become? Even since you set foot here? How _angry_ you get, so very quickly?" the Daedra prowled a few paces forward.

"Stress." I answered. And a desire to kick every Daedric ass that gets in my way. This one at the top of the list. But the vehemence of the thought did not last long as cold doubt continued to wiggle and niggle in the back of my mind.

"If you say so." he stopped looking around before looking back at me – a conscious show for my benefit. My palms began to sweat. Mankar Camoran's booming monologue I can block out but this…this is different. "But does stress make you dream in pain and suffering? Tell me – what do they call you?"

"Gatewalker is fine." I'm not about to give him my real name, that's asking for trouble. I meant to leap forward and run him through, let his distraction work for me.

My feet refused to move.

"Fitting, but not entirely truthful," he clicked his tongue at me. "Tell me, Gatewalker – just between us – have you imagined what it would be like to rip his heart of out his body?" The words feel poisonously sweet upon my ears. "Perhaps thought as far as eating it? Or taking the things that you want, when you want them because you have the power to do it?"

"No." Denial. I know it's denial…I've wondered…but never let myself dwell on it. I'm…supposed to be better than this. I'm human….still…

Aren't I? Fear of omitted information blossomed from the roots of doubt. I backed up, as he stepped forward. I've got to get past him, he's burning up time…why? Could I…could Martin be wrong? Am I really turning into one of them? What if it's something which happens on the inside only…a Dremora in a human skin…the possibilities stagger, and none of them bode well.

The perfect ambush.

"You see? This place," he waved to Oblivion, "is rubbing off on you. _Changing_ you. You've practically admitted it yourself." He shook his head, as though all the energy I spent denying this, fighting the truth was such a waste.

I shook my head numbly. It's not true…it's not true…

Broken images flashed through my mind, memories bleeding together as they gathered speed. Odd lurches of feeling. Seething anger bubbling in my stomach, waiting to explode out of me at a moment of simple convenience. A certain resilience to Oblivion…and yet every time I go back…the symptoms get worse…

"You see, don't you?" The Dremora asked softly as I backed into something.

I paid little attention up to this point, to where I was going, so long as it backed me away from the Dremora, from the fearful wall of logic he presented, so solid compared to the one I'd constructed so far.

I backed into the doorframe originally behind him. I can't back away any further – trapped, cornered. "You can't stay but you can't stay away," One hand closed around mine, crushing my fingers around Frostreaver's grip. "You're already halfway to being one of us."

I couldn't look away from penetrating red eyes. My jaw trembling, tears welling up in my eyes. it's not true…it's not true…I don't…I don't want to be…

My mouth tried to form the words, but no sound came out.

"Shh," The Dremora's armor vanished, replaced by the long black robes Dremora out of armor seem to prefer. Using his middle finger, he delicately wiped the tears from my eyes, then to my surprise, tasted them. "A strange human habit, 'tears'." He murmured quietly, more to himself than to me."I don't see the Master's attraction to your pitiful little world, Gatewalker. Unless it lies in watching your sweet souls _twist_ and warp in the futile pursuit of stopping him. You can't, you know."

"Liar." I choked.

The Dremora chuckled, unphased by the personal attack. "Why should I lie? The truth is so much more amusing." The weight of my chainmail vanished in an acrid puff, replaced by the long red robes of the Mythic Dawn, soft and surprisingly comfortable. Comfortable compared to the last time I wore them.

The instant I re-registered this I looked back up, into the Dremora's eyes. "You're a powerful creature, Gatewalker – no longer human, not quite Daedra. How many here would _kill_ to be what you are?" His free hand found my face, callused fingers scraping gently along my cheek. "Bow before my Master." His hot breath tickled against my lips, still slightly parted from my attempts to decry his words as poison. "Give him your fealty. Why ally with those ragged soon to be dead fools? They ask, and ask and ask of you – and what do you gain in return? Words. Empty promises? I can think of several things I'd like to give you…"

He leaned forward a little further, pressing his hot mouth against mine.

It was like kissing sun-warmed glass, as I pursed my lips. Before this observation fully formed he'd slid a hand past the small of my back, gently teasing my lips apart with a hot, rough tongue with some curiosity and definite skill. His hand over mine, still crushing my fingers against Frostreaver, loosened slightly as the little darkness in my heart, the one each trip into Oblivion fed lurched towards the Dremora. I responded on instinct, the little darkness encouraging the Dremora to feel, to taste, to explore the sensation of kissing a fragile human, fortified by too many trips into Oblivion, ignoring the vaguely burned taste of him, as my insides writhed, at war between revulsions and something darker than desire.

The hand vanished from my back. A moment later a soft 'shk' and a pinch at my neck tugged at the back of my mind, as the Dremora leaned back, leaving me shaking slightly, pressed back against the door for balance.

I didn't really see him. I saw the pendant Martin gave me, my small protection, my good luck, resting in the Dremora's pal, the chain catching the light, turning it to a tracery of sparkles in the air. "Give that back." I said dumbly, as if my lips were numb, eyes fixated on the glittering chain.

"You don't need it."

Memories of Martin swarmed, vibrant and colorful, burning away the weeds of doubts the Dremora so deftly sowed. Martin, who laughed with me. Who trusted me to come back alive. Who took the opportunity to go looking for Thu'um one rainy, bad-weathered day. My Martin, who I trust. Who cares for my soul and well-being – both as a healer and as… as something more. The man who worries for me. Who hates sending me out to do all these dangerous things…who gave me the choice, more than once, to let someone else go. Who wanted me to take the opportunity to let someone else run the risks.

_I love you_. His words echoed softly in my head, but with more strength than any doubt the Dremora conjured.

"I said give it back." I felt anger leap in my breast, an anger which had unnoticed by me, quelled to cold ashes under the Dremora's poisonous whisperings.

The pendant rose free of the Dremora's hand, vanishing in a twinkling of lights. He leaned forward again. "Carry out one small sign of good faith – restore this Garden to balance andI shall take you to the Master myself. I promise you, Gatewalker," he breathed in my ear, a sensation like having hot Elsweyrian breeze focused on one part of my skin, "it will be unlike anything you've ever had before."

Well, that's not difficult, you _bastard_.

Shoving aside the dark part of my soul's desire to experience that, I let the anger burn, focused on it. I _hate being manipulated_! And that's exactly what he's doing…

Reached up, hand shaking slightly as the struggle within me continued, I let it rest against the Dremora's chest. Then my expression hardened, my head cleared by comparison to moments ago.

You _bastard_.

The spell exploded from my mouth, into my hand, knocking the Dremora back so violently, so unexpectedly that he staggered, falling backwards like a chair in a barfight. Leaping forward with a shout, I drove Frostreaver into his unarmored midsection, watching frost crystals blossom around the wound. The Dremora choked as I wrenched the weapon, worsening the wound, his expression completely shocked as he feebly reached too touch the blade, unable to believe I'd sunk it into him. I could feel the remnants of tears on my face. Angry tears. Hurt tears.

"You don't have _anything_ to offer me." I snarled through my haze of emotions.

The Dremora laughed, wincing as he did so. "I'll be back, Gatewalker…perhaps…the Master may even hold you in reserve for that moment."

"Don't hold your breath, wormbait." I tore Frostreaver free and swept the point across the Dremora's throat. The malicious light died from his eyes. He probably spent those last few moments anticipating my screams, and all the nasty, naughty things he planned on doing to me, sooner or later. Or perhaps the nasty naughty things he planned on doing to me _after_ I begged for them. I think that would appeal to the warped Daedric sense of humor far better.

Sorry to burst your bubble, asshole, but I've got bigger fish to fry and no interest in _you_.

I wiped my mouth on my sleeve. I don't feel guilty, exactly - merely disgusted, as if I had tried to kiss Martin and wound up kissing a support pillar.

Or Jauffre. Ugh.

Damn Dremora.

--A--


	66. Chapter 66

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. ^_^

--A--

Chapter Sixty-Six

--A--

Of course, I thought bitterly, after an interminable amount of time trying to open the damned door. Mankar Camoran would want people to progress, increasingly showing signs of servitude, or slavery to his goals. Clasping the heavy manacles taken from the body of that bastard Dremora, I continued scowling. The heavy Daedric metal rasped uncomfortably against my wrists. Rather than summon my armor again – avoiding wondering how the Dremora managed to reverse the spell by his own power – I kept the Mythic Dawn robes.

I want my amulet – Martin's gift of luck and blessing – back. I feel more naked without _that_ than without my armor, even though I hardly notice the amulet, or pay it much attention when I wear it. The fact is, it's always rested safe near my heart, and I don't want anyone knowing how precious the sentiments attached to it are to me.

Because if people know, it's more likely an enemy will try and take it. I wonder how the Dremora knew…or if he simply guessed. No matter – he probably sent it along ahead of me, to let Camoran know how far I'd come.

Regardless, practicality rules at the moment: the robes – while making me feel like scum - might help me blend in – though with Frostreaver in my hand, I doubt I'll 'blend in' for very long. Again I shifted the manacle, feeling my skin rub beneath it, aware of a vague sensation of heat – though nothing near what I felt from the Mysterium Xarxes. No – this is just the discomfort of wearing manacles. I don't like it.

Waving the manacles before the door, as if hailing its attention, it ground slowly open. Glancing back at the dead Dremora – I keep waiting for him to get back up and shout some more before I run him through again – unease tickled my stomach, accompanied by an overwhelming moment of illness. So much so, I had to lean against the doorframe, waiting until it passed, like a violent dizzy spell. Much as I want to get the hell out of here, I begin two wonder how the crossing back home is going to go.

Not well, I expect.

Slipping through the door, I stumbled, the floor dropping off sharply, but not far. Knee deep in water, the door ground closed behind me, revealing the cavern's bluish green illumination – though I see no source – the roof of the cave reflected water-patterns in the white-yellow typical to them.

The water felt hot against my shins, though it didn't steam. The longer I stood there, the warmer the water got, making my feet tingle. Starting forward I shrieked, jumping back as a human shape – male, stripped to the waist – exploded from the water, screaming as if in agony, wearing manacles similar to my own. He flailed, jerking about like a fish on a line as I staggered away from him, only to bump into another.

Landing in the water I yelped too – for a moment it seemed to try to draw me under. Letting go of Frostreaver I staggered back to my feet, head ringing at the sounds of the screaming men and women. Watching them carefully, though they didn't seem to be aware of me, I don't trust this place. Likely as not, they'll notice me, and fall upon me like cannibals. Groping about I found Frostreaver, which chilled the water around it, cool and comforting to my hand.

The first man who'd surfaced suddenly flailed again, gave a gasp I recognize – the same gasp someone makes when unexpectedly transfixed by an enemy's weapon. A mix of shock as tension flees the body. He looked upwards, eyes widening, mouthing wordlessly, then collapsed limply beneath the water – which although clear showed no sign of him. Ahead the process began again for someone else, others returning beneath the waters.

What _is _this? Some kind of…of purge, or purification?

Well, whatever it is, it doesn't seem to affect _me_ the same way – though as I continued forward a sort of drag or current began to tug at my ankles, trying to trip me up. I keep waiting for hands to seize me, to drag me under.

The end of the twisting cavern couldn't arrive soon enough. By the time I hauled myself up onto the ledge, my skin felt burned, though not blistered from the water. My robes, soaked through, made moving laborious. The odd lethargy, which sunk into me as I traversed the waters, did not vanish once I scrambled out of them.

The floor was crosshatched to allow anyone entering from this end to avoid slipping on wet stone. Now it dug into my knees, palm, and knuckles as I knelt, trembling slightly. The sensation of burning lingered like bad memories, the lethargy making my steps wobble slightly as I reached the next door. I can't read the Daedric runes, but they can't mean anything good.

Taking a moment I leaned on the door. At my touch the manacles pulled tighter, the door rolling open almost silently. Odd, for a door that size.

The heat blasted like that of an open oven, making even my flame-resistant skin feel the burn. _This_ at least, resembles what my mind so desperately expects to see; burning smells, cooking meat, blood, the spicy stink of Daedric magicka.

Squinting watery eyes I stepped quickly through the doorway, the door rolling silently shut behind me. If this is an afterlife…I'll bet it's not what the Mythic Dawn joined for. Screams echoed here too, and the resonant clank-clank of Daedric boots on the rocky floor made me pull into the shadows, taking a moment to watch rather than charge in.

Shadows leapt and danced like nightmares, or Sanguine's revelers upon the rocky walls, reminiscent of some tunnels I've seen within the Deadlands. Ghosts of former prisoners coiled about, formed by the smoke hanging thick in the air near the ceiling. Edging forward I saw a chasm – too far to jump, full of the same melted rock as the rivers through the Deadlands. So, Paradise finally shows its colors…

I clamped my own free hand over my mouth to stifle a gasp of shock. I didn't realize what I saw from back by the door. Edging forward, I realized cages hung suspended from complex pulley-systems from the ceiling, over the fiery river. And in some of the cages were _living people_.

A rush of revulsion and gladness of my forethought to silence myself hit as one of the cages suddenly descended, dropping its occupant chest-deep in the hot liquid. The screams tore through my head, vicious claws to the soul…but no one should be able to scream that long, endure that sort of body-destroying suffering…unless…unless he…she?...is somehow immortal.

I don't know why it surprises me, when I've seen evidences before now that they aren't regular living creatures…but suffering is suffering and I don't believe in torture. I won't do it. I won't watch it.

Well, I suppose this only goes to support the 'Mythic Dawn afterlife' theory. A rough, uncouth voice – Daedric – boomed over the screams, a jovial sound. Perverse enjoyment of the suffering of a lesser being…how would it be if I slipped up behind you and _pushed you in after them?_

The Dremoraish thought – though not as outrageous as they sometimes are back home – set me moving, carefully. I'm not fantastic at sneaking, but I've learned a few things about doing it right. It also helps when I'm not wearing heavy boots.

The Dremora eased into view as I slipped forward, too busy jeering at the victim in the cage. Behind him stood another human, evidently manning the controls for the cage, expression carefully blank. Slipping forward, I left the wall behind, shifting Frostreaver in my hands. Is it torture for you too? To watch your comrade suffer like that, keeping silent so as not to attract the attentions of the Dremora? All it takes is one quick, clean blow. This Dremora's burnt toast.…

"You wear the Bands, but you're no prisoner. Who are you? What are you doing here?" The voice was soft, so as not to attract the Dremora.

What the…?

Hands came out of nowhere, one clamping firmly over my mouth, despite my immediate attempt to bite it, the other slung awkwardly around my torso, pinning the arm holding Frostreaver so effectively, I'd have dropped it if I had any less determination to keep it in my hand. Struggling, I was dragged back. Finally I gained purchase against the ground, taking the opportunity to do as I was taught, slamming my head back into my attacker's face. Apparently my captor had leaned over, so the back of my head caught him in the _mouth_, instead of his chin or chest. "Ouch! Hold still!" He hissed.

"Get the hell off me!" I snarled into the gagging hand, flailing and struggling when my attempt to plant my feet and throw him failed. He swung me around, slamming me painfully into a wall with enough force to bounce me off it, stunned. I landed half dazed in a heap on the ground, Frostreaver hitting the ground with a clang. I can't believe this is happening…so why's he not screaming for the Dremora? Hoping to…curry favor?

"It's all right. Keep quiet, or you'll bring Orthe." A moment later the Mythic Dawn agent appeared in my vision, a hand descending to touch my bleeding brow. The pain vanished with a hiss of magicka, though the dizziness remained.

Blinking a few times as my head cleared I picked out fine Altmer features, large brown eyes beneath pale brows.

As soon as I could, I sat up, rather hastily, a fresh wave of dizziness shaking my world, coupled with the insane urge to turn and rip the mer's skull off his face.

"Slowly – that was quite a knock to the head. I am sorry, but you _don't_ want Orthe to investigate." The mer nodded towards the still cackling Dremora, though the screams had stopped, replaced by desperate sobbing.

"Duly noted…" I grunted, glaring balefully at him. Two things attract my notice: one, he had his hands laced, in full view, neither weapon nor shiver of magicka I can see or sense. Secondly, he he's still not screaming about an intruder.

The Altmer was, nonetheless, peering intently at me, even as I scanned the area for Frostreaver – lying some feet to my left. Apparently the noise in here is too loud for the Dremora to hear the clatter – or he's half-deaf from the screams. The humanity in me shuddered, wanting to block the sounds out. "I'm gonna keep it simple – I can go around you, or I can go through you." Climbing to my feet I glowered at him, watching his eyes rove over my Deadlands' ravaged face. "It makes no difference to me…" A quick dive took me tumbling to where Frostreaver lay. Regaining my feet I found the Altmer had stood up as well, though his eyes now lingered on the weapon, before he glanced in the Demora's direction.

"Ah – I know you now," the Altmer nodded, eyeing me as if he could see my personality written on my face. "You're the one who killed Raven and Ruma. The Gatewalker, I've heard you called."

"Oh yeah?" I'm completely nonplussed over here. I've killed a lot of people recently.

The Altmer nodded, continuing to keep his hands where I could see them. "Oh yes. They speak rather highly of you, if you appreciate the creativity and spectrum of the insults," his mouth tugged slightly toward a smile, but there was something strained about it. Someone who hadn't had much reason to smile in a very long time.

This is bad. This is _dangerous_. I'm actually starting to feel vaguely empathetic with this mer. More so because of his aversion to calling the Dremora over. This _doesn't_ make him an ally…

"I heard about the red-headed agent of the Septim family from them. While I was still in their father's favor, of course," the mer added, seeing my deepening suspicion. Oh, it's deepening – the old 'oh woe is me, I displeased the master, now I want to help you' rubbish.

I might have been born at night, but it wasn't _last_ night, fetcher.

"Was, I said," he reiterated. "Tell me – why are you here?" As if he can't already guess.

Isn't it obvious? But there was a sparkle of something like hope in the tired face. "I'm here to kick ass, grab the Amulet of Kings and kill Mankar Camoran." I answered flatly. Come on, the agent of apparent notoriety waltzes into the enemy stronghold and you wanna know why she's here? "He owes me money." I added, disregarding the fact he couldn't pay up even if he _did_ owe me money, if I killed him first. Still, it sounds good.

Wait – I keep joking about a tab. Call in the collection agent – yours truly.

The mer's eyes glittered, several years of age falling away from his face. You know, he'd be quite a looker if he wasn't Mythic Dawn (therefore a scumbag) and probably like, nine times my age. Or ninety, it's hard to tell with elves.

"There is still hope to stop Mehrunes Dagon's invasion?" He strode forward, grabbing my forearm. I struggled back, though he quickly let go, seeing me misinterpret the gesture. No one likes being grabbed, fetcher. "My…my apologies."

Forget the apologies – what's your game? "Who are you? What's it matter to you in the first place?" I demanded.

"I am Eldamil…" the shadows flickered back across his elven features. "And it is I, who bear responsibility for much of the evil that was done in Mankar Camoran's name. Perhaps even to the extent of responsibility for your involvement." he added hesitantly.

Arching my eyebrows I scowled. That's a pretty big claim for a guy stuck in this hellish grotto.

"You must believe me - I would undo it if I could." It was less a plea and more an argument of fact. Not a ploy for sympathy, but a justification.

The problem is I don't _have _to believe anything.

"I never thought I would have a chance to redeem myself, waiting helplessly here in eternity…" His murmurs to himself dies softly as he began to flay his lip, thinking hard.

It's a amazing the number of people who have this bad habit. Really.

"But now you are here. Perhaps you can kill Mankar Camoran. Save Tamriel from Dagon's final victory," Eldamil continued to muse.

Does this place make you insane? I'll bet it does. "Why should you care?" I asked coldly. "Seems to me you lot've been pretty die hard about this whole thing so far."

Eldamil did not start, as though he'd forgotten I stood here. He simply seemed to come back to the main track of conversation. "You're right. Devotion and dedication are the currency here. Some find themselves with more or less than others. The latter are sent here." Eldamil agreed, much to my surprise. He looked around again – the screams stopped, a Daedric voice speaking incoherently. Eldamil nodded then looked back to me. Apparently, there's no fear of the Dremora turning up.

Or he's stalling. My grip on Frostreaver tightened.

"I was at the sack of Kvatch. The city had no chance. We took them completely by surprise, and we carried the walls in the first assault. It was suicide to fight, death to beg for mercy. Both man and mer and Daedra reeled blood drunk that night."

No shit – I got to clean that up, remember? Yet, I couldn't quite bring myself to interrupt the flow of words, words tinged with something like…regret. What a thing to find, here, in Mankar Camoran's Paradise. It doesn't make sense – these are his most favored…well, favored goons. Only the diehard maniacs ended up here, or so I thought.

"But they fought on anyway. Desperately. They seemed to think that decadent, mundane world of theirs was worth defending. Even to the death." Eldamil gave a bitter chuckle, his expression tightening slightly. "I was slain after the battle was over. Three townsfolk hiding in a cellar attacked me when I entered their house, hunting down survivors. They tore me to pieces, although I have no doubt they were immediately killed by my companions."

The disappointment was obvious. Well, I suppose that's understandable – someone puts up a hell of a fight only to get taken out by the second wave – it's a little disappointing.

"I've had plenty of time to ponder my deeds since I came here. Ponder, and regret. An eternity of regret. That is what all this is, you know," Eldamil waved to the cavern at large, outside the small alcove where we stood closeted. "For this weakness, the Master sent me here, to torture my former comrades who showed similar ingratitude for his gift of eternal life."

If he's telling the truth, it explains quite a bit. There's no one here with power, except the Dremora. People simply suffer. "I was at Kvatch," I declared, more to break the silence than anything else.

Eldamil nodded. "Yes – Ruma and Raven are not the only ones who speak loudly of you." He gave me an appraising look.

"You expected someone taller?" I asked dryly.

Eldamil's smile darted across his face before disappearing again. "Not at all. I was expecting someone who would punch first, ask questions later. Typical Fighters Guild."

"You _do_ remember me busting up your lip?" I asked, arching my eyebrows.

"Ah – well, I suppose you're holding true to form, then. I take it you've killed Kathutet? The door warden?"

"That bastard's wormbait." Eldamil arched his eyebrows, though he eyed my clothes, as if the puzzle didn't add up. "Camoran already knows I'm here."

"Of course he does. But no one here expected you to get past Kathutet. He can be very persuasive when lobbying for a cause."

"Do tell," I grunted, repressing a wave of slight discomfort and the moodier push of darker thoughts.

"Then he obviously didn't explain to you what those are." Eldamil nodded at my wrists. "Those bracers are what we put on the prisoners here. It prevents them from escaping, and makes them easy to control. You can't leave this place while you still wear them."

Well, I'm very determined. I'll find a way. "Let me guess: you know how to get them off?"

"I understand you must mistrust my motives," Eldamil reasoned quietly. "Let me ask you something." When I didn't say anything, Eldamil continued. "Can you really bring this eternal nightmare to an end? Can you defeat Mankar Camoran? And free all the souls of the poor fools who followed him?"

As if on cue, screams started somewhere further along, then another set, the two voices echoing in perverse chorus. Swallowing hard, I forced myself to look at Eldamil. "I don't know about freeing souls. But yeah, I'm here for Camoran. He's got something of mine, and something of a friend of mine's." I answered, feeling my temper flicker like candle flame. My amulet, and the Amulet of Kings. I didn't come all this way, let Oblivion twist me, to just quit.

"Then…the Septim heir still lives?" Eldamil assumed so. It's not a hard assumption to make. The mer surprised me by looking up towards the ceiling. "Perhaps Akatosh heard my prayers. Even here. Even after everything I've done ..." He swallowed hard, his eyes very bright for a moment.

And I can't help thinking…no loyal member of Camoran's cabal would _mention_ one of the Nine – much less Akatosh – in this place. Not even to lie to me. "He's alive." You know it already. I simply felt heartless otherwise, as instinct began bothering me again – this time to trust. Intelligence says 'don't trust him – spit him like a pig and move on'.

"Listen, Gatewalker, I can help you. You will need someone's help if you are ever to leave the Forbidden Grotto. Better to walk with me, than to let the Dremora take you before Camoran." Eldamil pressed.

Eyeing the mer again I nodded once. "Okay. You lead."

Eldamil took this gracefully. "I am no match for Mankar Camoran, but perhaps together we can find a way to defeat him. This way…though…" his eyes strayed to Frostreaver. "Your weapon, especially in your hands, is a bit of a giveaway. Can you afford me this small trust?" he held out his hand.

I glared at it. "A warrior's soul is in her sword."

"Yes, but the warrior's sword is in her breast, if she has not discretion." Eldamil responded evenly.

I hate arguing with a mer.

But I handed the weapon over. I don't like this.

--A--


	67. Chapter 67

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. ^_^

--A--

Chapter Sixty-Seven

--A--

Following within the range where Frostreaver – particularly to inexperienced hands – is almost useless, I kept watch for any hint of betrayal. Although, my attention stays divided – the screams echo in here, and the magnitude of mortal suffering is enough to turn even the stomachs of the callous. "So," I finally pressed as Eldamil walked us along the edge of the molten river.

Hot air seared up. For moment I felt at my eyebrows, wondering if the heat had somehow singed them off.

Eldamil did not show any discomfort at the question. I expected irritation, or something similar. People don't like talking about mistakes – if indeed, this isn't just some act. But I suppose, if it gets me to Camoran even a smidge more quickly, I don't really care how it happens.

"I was one of Mankar Camoran's chief lieutenants. I…helped plan the Emperor's assassination." Eldamil's voice was somewhat precise and controlled. Definitely not a conversation he wants to have – especially not with me.

"Oh yeah?" I couldn't stop the sardonic question.

"Yes." Eldamil sounded shaken, as if the plans in retrospect were rather frightening. "I opened the Great Gate at Kvatch."

"Why did it close – how? No one knew about the Sigil Stones…" I tripped, stubbing my slipper-shod feet on the ground. Eldamil reached back absently, catching me by the elbow.

"Careful, the floors here are treacherous to the unwary. This place…it has a mind of its own, I sometimes think." Eldamil released my arm, glancing around.

"I asked about the Gate." Checking the floor behind me I found nothing over which I should have tripped. I'd better be more careful: a really bad trip could send me falling into that chasm, and there's an end to fighting the good fight.

"Once the city was damaged enough, there was no reason to expend the resources. The Dremora inside were notified by one of our people, and they closed the Gate themselves – though when they do it, I believe, they needn't deactivate the entire outpost."

"There's another way?" An easier way?

Eldamil chuckled. "I don't think mortal hands can do it…must I call you Gatewalker?" he added, in a lower voice. It's a bit…_obvious_, should anyone hear me."

Then don't talk so loud, the dremoraishness chided. You know, it occurs to me just now…it's almost as though, on this side of the Gates, the dremoraish leanings take precedence over my usual humanity…the exact opposite of how things are back on Nirn.

If I were a scholar, I'd feel a certain fascination with the subject. AS the victim, I feel rather ill. "Ailirah." I grunted, as memories of Miscarcand, of how useful the dremoraish leanings could be drifted through my mind, shadows in smoke.

"I don't think mortal hands can use Daedric means, Ailirah," Eldamil shook his head. "Oh damn…" Turning sharply Eldamil grabbed my arm and began hustling me back the way we'd come. Craning my neck to look over my shoulder I saw a large Daedric-shaped shadow. "It's Orthe," Eldamil looked around, then turning to me he jerked his chin to the cage. "Get in."

"You're nuts!" I tore my arm free.

"Listen – Orthe is the Dremora overseer…he could complicate..." Eldamil hissed urgently.

Complicate shit. I'm not doing it. "Then I'll kick his ass too! I'm not…" I fell silent as I heard footsteps. Damn. Oh well – business as usual. I just need to remember to kick him into the chasm - he'll have more trouble coming back from something like _that_, I'm sure.

"What's all this?" The Dremora rasped, for once so I could understand him.

"Just business as usual, sir," Eldamil's knuckles whitened around Frostreaver's grip.

"Hmph…" The Dremora eyed me closely, then his expression uncrumpled from its scowl. "You!"

I didn't wait for anything else. Come on, Eldamil – I'm the Gatewalker – these idiots know who to look out for! And there's _no way_ you're dangling my ass over a river of molten rock. Frostreaver tore free of Eldamil's hand. He yelped, letting go as I grabbed his robes. Sacrificing the opportunity to attack Orthe before he could attack me, I flung Eldamil out of my way, towards safety, away from Orthe.

Orthe's mace nearly took out my shoulder as I dodged, clanging into the controls for the torture cage. Gears squealed and chains rattled as it dropped like a stone into the river below. Orthe screamed as I brought Frostreaver quickly down across his extended arm. The Dremora flailed as bones shattered around Frostreaver's bite into his armor. Not enough force to sever the limb through all the Daedric plate. However, the way Orthe's mace dropped is telling: I managed to cut deeply enough to sever the muscles, maybe even the tendons, in his arm. Dragging Frostreaver across the limb like a knife across bread, I spun about, gathering momentum.

Orthe ducked the blow, clobbering me across the shoulder with his good hand, sending me staggering into the control mechanism, Frostreaver falling from my grip. Levers and sharp edges damaged by Orthe dug into my back as the Dremora drew back, snarling, to slap me.

Eldamil appeared in my peripheral vision, startling Orthe. Orthe must not have expected the mer to get involved. With a grunt of effort, I grabbed the edges of the console as best I could. My feet slammed into Orthe, one to the chin, knocking his head back, one to the chest, sending the rest of him away from me.

Eldamil dodged as I pushed myself off the ruined controls. The muscles in my back screeched displeasure at the rough treatment. Retrieving Frostreaver took seconds.

By the time I turned to see whether Orthe was swinging at me –or knocking Eldamil's face in – I found the Dremora with his own set of problems. His mouth hung open, screaming wordlessly as Eldamil, looking supremely cold and unimpressed, stood out of flailing range, shock spell dancing from his raised hands.

Once I regained my stance, Eldamil let the spell dissolve, though Orthe remained silent, muscles rendered temporarily immobile by the lightning crashing through him. A swift, smooth stroke sent his head rolling over the edge, the body slumping backwards with the force of the strike.

"Help me!" I snapped, leaning Frostreaver against the ruined controls, seizing one of Orthe's arm.

"He's immortal…" Eldamil began.

"Yeah, I know you want to get a move on…" Patience. Show a little patience. Ignore the blood pumping, the allure of doing something more straightforward than simply sneaking around. "…but I want him to have a tough time respawning…or whatever it is they do." I grunted.

"Returning from exile, or from banishment, as the proper term is called." Eldamil seized Orthe's other arm. Between the two of us we push him into the chasm, after his head. Grimacing at the Dremora blood on my clothes, I wiped my hands.

"I never thought of it that way." Eldamil mused, looking over the chasm. "Efficient. But surely you know an angry Dremora is no mean opponent? And Orthe will be angry, when he gets back."

I don't plan to be here when he gets back. "Come on – let's get out of here before someone notices he's missing." Rubbing my hand over one shoulder, a small spell healed the bruises and gouges the ruined cage controls inflicted on my skin. "Tell me about Camoran."

"What do you…" Eldamil stopped when I gave him a look indicating I didn't care what he said, so long as he answered the question. There's such a thing as trying to be too helpful. "Mankar Camoran lives in his palace, which overlooks the Savage Garden from the top of the mountain. He never comes here."

I gave a bitter snort. I can't imagine why. It's so lovely.

"He stays in Carac Agaialor with Ruma and Raven – his children, but I think I've told you that much. All these caves eventually lead to the Terrace of Dawn in front of his palace. Were it not for the Bands of the Chosen, you could easily wander around here for awhile and turn up where you need to be. You'll want to be wary of the children, as much as their father. All three are powerful mages."

That's all right – it simply means they probably let their physical strength wane in the pursuit of magical prowess. So if I don't let them stun me, or paralyze me, cast burden…you know, this is suddenly harder than it sounds.

"But I know Camoran the Elder," Eldamil continued grimly. "He's got an ego of outstanding proportions. It will amuse him to watch you – us - fight his brats first. Watch out for Ruma – she likes to go for people's eyeballs."

"Her and the clannfear." I grunted.

"Believe me, the clannfear are preferable," Eldamil added under his breath.

You know, this sounds like rueful, personal knowledge. I'm too well-bred to ask, but I do wonder. Looking over at Eldamil's profile I shrugged. Well, I suppose it makes sense: the trusted lieutenant, the master's daughter…and then the fall from favor, and you find yourself making seared prawns out of your former colleagues.

Damn – I could really go for some seared prawns – especially with the lemon or lime juice served on the side, they way they do at the market in Sentinel. I _love_ prawns…

"How long do you think we've been here?" I asked.

"Who knows? Time moves strangely. Why? Are you feeling any ill effects?" Eldamil stopped walking, eyebrows knitting together.

I considered my general state of existence. "I'm…stable."

"Well, you won't feel the worst of it until you go back. Change on this side is fairly painless…it's readjusting to living on Nirn that hurts." Eldamil nodded. "Like a sunburn, you don't realize how bad it is, until hours after the damage occurs."

"Thanks."

Eldamil blinked. "I didn't mean to be insensitive."

"Thanks," this time, I managed to sound more pleasant.

"Here we are," Eldamil led us around a sharp turn, which looked suspiciously like the same door I'd come in through. He took my hands – awkwardly as I had to readjust Frostreaver. He spoke softly over the manacles, which fell off with a clank, vanishing from the ground a moment later, as if evaporated. "Have you any better armor than this? You'll need it."

I nodded, but continued examining my wrists. The flesh showed pink and raw, not yet weeping, but painful nonetheless. Without my asking, or even waiting for me to do it myself, Eldamil took a moment to heal the damage.

"Thanks." Three times in a row. Wow.

"Not at all. Through here – the walk to Carac Agaialor isn't a long one." Eldamil assured me as the door rolled open at his touch.

Sunlight blinded, as fresh air – which my mind once again screams isn't _actually _as fresh and sweet as my nose says it is.

"You feel the lie, don't you?" Eldamil asked, when he realized I still stood motionless, squinting, trying to see more than blinding white, trying to hear what I expected to hear.

"Huh?"

A hand descended, guiding me forward.

"Before the door closes. We wouldn't want you trapped in there." The mer declared gently. "This place may resemble paradise, but it can't be anything other than what it is: a pocket in the Deadlands. Taste the fruit on the trees: it is ash. Drink the water - little more than mud. And yet, the plants you find work in alchemical mixes. A body may subsist upon them. But it is not a truly healthy existence."

"I knew something was weird here…" I grunted as my eyes finally adjusted to the beautiful lie of Paradise. "How come I'm so aware of it?"

"I don't know. All beings are aware of some…wrongness…to this place. Though I will admit, I've not seen anyone as sensitive to it as you are. Perhaps because you are in no way anchored to the place?"

I'm anchored to the Deadlands, through the burns from the Mysterium Xarxes. Perhaps…it's like Martin's funny lights. The changes to my core make me aware to things which stand opposite Mehrunes Dagon…and help me see his works more clearly.

Well, 'see' is relative. I made it a point to ignore everything but the place Eldamil and I were heading.

Finally, though, we reached the crown of a hill, surrounded by a fence of the same white stone as Aylied ruins, as though around a private residence. I don't doubt the rest of this 'Carac Agaialor' is safe underground – hidden from the lie of its surrounding lands. Of its own existence.

Eldamil stopped me, as the doorway opened, allowing twow rather greenish-looking Altmer to exit.

Oh wow…I _recognize_ _both of these fetchers_. Well well, well, it's quite a reunion.

The woman I recognized right off, and even her name came back to me, a detail half-forgotten in the intervening time. Ruma Camoran, priestess of the Dagon Cult whom I killed already. Well, that simply sets precedent, doesn't it? The man I recognized as well – though more dimly. I'm reasonably certain he was in the sewers when Baurus and I took Gwinas' place to get in with the Mythic Dawn.

"How's your head?" I asked idly. "Bet those still ache." I remember decapitating Raven, and I remember shearing Ruma nearly in half – bad aim.

The sour expressions indicated the joke amused me only. As it was meant to. I can't have the entire world as friends, I suppose. Is hall try not to spiral into a well; of depression and angst.

"I should have thought," Raven remarked icily, "You'd have learned when to keep your mouth shut."

"So says the man who ended life…'a head'." Bad joke…but the way the vein in Raven's temple pulsed justifies it. I love it when dumb jokes get to people.

Ruma ignored me, with nothing but glares of death and torture for Eldamil. "I'll let the Dremora flay your hide off for this," she breathed.

"Then it's fortunate I prefer _their _tender mercies," Eldamil responded blandly. He took the threat seriously, and yet, I could tell whatever horrors the Dremora might have in store, he really did prefer them to whatever Ruma might do. Part of me _really _wonders if these two weren't lovers once. Former lovers tend to hold into grudges really, _really_ well, so I'm told.

"Plus, _I'm _here," I added, swinging Frostreaver slightly. "Might want to save those death threats for after you're in a position to carry them out. Just a not-so-friendly hint."

"More than threats, Gatewalker," Ruma responded grimly. "Do come in. Meet the lord of the manor."

"That's all right, age before beauty. You go first." The spiteful remark didn't cut deep, but it did irritate Ruma, at least.

Raven caught her arm, gave her a warning look, then strode into the dark hall beyond.

"Must you annoy everyone you meet?" Eldamil asked.

"Ask me that when the fighting's over." I answered back.

--A--


	68. Chapter 68

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. ^_^

--A--

Chapter Sixty-Eight

--A--

At first the inside of Carac Agaialor looked _green_, the result of the sudden change from bright outdoor light to cool indoors. The first fixed thing I saw made me ready to spit fire, hurl acid, rip eyes from sockets with my bare hands.

Mankar Camoran – it can't be anyone else – sitting on a throne atop a raised dais. What had my eye, along with my ire, was the amulet he wore. A single massive red stone, surrounded by smaller ones – hadn't I seen them up close before? – glittering with an inner fire, which seemed to dance in revulsion, as if trying to get away from the chest against which it rested.

A silent cry for me to take it, to take it back to its rightful master.

"Ailirah the Gatewalker…and the traitor Eldamil," Raven rumbled as I strode past him. My business isn't with this little brat – it's with the big thug-zealot with the rock on a chain.

Mankar Camoran rose from his throne, towering above Eldamil and myself, staring down his Altmer-looking nose at us, as if we were little more than insects – biting insects, worthy of note only because of the irritation they caused when ignored. Closer, I could see traces of the Bosmer in him. Something in the sureness of the face – Altmer tend to have long, oval faces – the overall impression of solid bulk, for Bosmer generally are fairly solid, for a tree-dwelling people. But he plays at Altmer. "I've waited for you, Lady-Champion of Old Tamriel." Mankar's voice echoed impressively in his throne room, audience hall, whatever it was.

The torches along the walls burnt clear, like fire, but I can tell it's an illusion. They're just fancy mage lights. Just like this is no real Aylied ruin. It's an imitation. The further continuation of the biggest lie I've ever seen in my life.

"I'm flattered – why don't you come down here, get a better look, while you still can?" I jeered, but my voice came across flat as tone, stronger than steel. An invitation.

My heart pounded uncertainly in my ribcage. This is it – the fact I've dreamed about mangling him for weeks and weeks. The cause of so much suffering, and a conduit for so much more. My temper, still bubbling close to the surface, began to creep forward, seeing a vent, like magma in a volcano. My knuckles whitened around Frostreaver's grip. For an old guy, he doesn't look it – he looks more like those two prats' _brother_ than their father. Though, as they're all half-bred elves, it _does_ make ages hard to tell.

Mankar laughed patronizingly, folding his hands behind his back like a mentor surveying wayward pupils – though I notice he's pointedly ignoring Eldamil. Glancing back, Ruma couldn't seem to pry her eyes free of him. Definitely an old lover "You? You're nothing more than the last breath of a dying age, Ailirah. Gatewalker. The last breath of the stale air of false hopes."

I smirked. False hope, huh? And here I thought we'd been kicking your ass up one side of the country and down the other. I mean, I did come all this way to see _you_, didn't I? "Sounds like the sort of things losers usually say," I noted to Eldamil, refusing to show my tingling nerves. All this talking makes me nervous, though I can't feel any wavers of magicka, Daedric or otherwise, except from the magelights. I know what to feel for, so unless he isn't playing by his own rules…he just likes to hear the sound of his own voice.

Typical.

"How little you understand!" Mankar snapped. "You cannot stop Lord Dagon – the very presumption of the idea! The walls between the worlds crumble like aged rock. The Mythic Dawn grows nearer with every rift in the foundations! So, very soon, the lines will not just _blur_, _Hero_, they will be _erased_ – Imagine it! Tamriel and Oblivion…rejoined!" He flung his arms about passionately.

This guy's off his rocker. Why am I not surprised?

"The Mythic Age reborn," Ruma and Raven intoned.

Oh shut up.

"Lord Dagon shall walk Tamriel again. The world shall be remade!" Mankar rhapsodized. "Remade from the ashes of the old! My vision shall be realized! Imagine it – weakness purged from the world, mortal and immortal alike purified in the refiner's fire! My long duel with the Septim line is over! And I have mastery!" Mankar came down two steps, breathing hard.

He's delusional. I can't believe he's getting this worked up by the sound of his own voice. I feel sorry for the kids' mother – having to listen to all that as a precursor. Yech.

"The Emperor is dead! The Amulet of Kings is _mine_." For the moment. In another moment it's going to hit the ground, following your _head_. I don't usually take kill-trophies but for you, I might just make an exception. "And you, the last defender of the last ragged remnant of the Septim line stands before me, in the heart of my power. How like the rest of them – so eager to sacrifice others in his stead, lacking the courage to face me in person."

I didn't let the jibe bother me – I wouldn't have _let_ him take my place for this - so I smiled. "_Deka-daka-deka_," a Ta'agra phrase indicating idle babble no one really cares about, "at this rate I'm gonna die of _old age_ before he ever takes a swing at me. Is he always this bad?" I asked Eldamil lightly, watching Raven and Ruma seemingly communicating silently. I saw their footing shift.

Mankar Camoran moved in my peripheral, but I wasn't really watching _him_. For a guy who likes to criticize, he strikes me as the sort who'd throw his kids at me first, then come down to fight if I 'proved myself worthy of the honor' of being killed by him personally.

The reality is, I'm going to kick his ass out of _Oblivion_. He'll never even land in Tamriel or out of it – he'll just tumble around in limbo for the rest of eternity. Sounds like a plan to me – let's run with it.

"I am curious though…as to the importance of this?" I didn't need to see what he held – the tiny wink of silver told me it was my amulet.

"Give that back and I won't cut off your hands." I growled.

"An amulet of Akatosh – a priest's token. Not something a warrior should carry…unless of course, it wasn't given to a warrior…" Mankar smiled, indicating plainly he meant to see me riled.

The problem is, I'm already angry, but it's controlled. He doesn't _want _to see me riled, because he has no idea what it means. "Give it _back_," I snarled, the Dremoraish harshness infusing my voice like burning spices, making Raven and Ruma both jump. Mankar Camoran's eyebrows arched, finally putting it together that the red eyes were not simply a product of a recent trip into Oblivion, or even _this _trip into the Deadlands, masked over as Paradise.

No, my foolish friends, it's something far deeper.

Mankar looked at the amulet. "I'll be happy to oblige."

I didn't see the spell, but the amulet landed in a heap of silver, splattering on the floor when Mankar throw it at my feet. "Well, so much for your bargaining chip." I brought Frostreaver forward, ready to snap to the left, or to the right. "What are you waiting for? There's nothing left to talk about." I hate waiting.

Camoran shrugged. "If you're in such a hurry to die. Kill them." He motioned to Eldamil and myself.

Frostreaver bit deeply into Raven's staff. I'm sure he meant to hurl a spell at me, but wound up blocking instead. The slam of magicka on magicka from Ruma and Eldamil made me turn, involuntarily to look, as if someone had screamed unexpectedly.

Raven threw our weapons to one side, not expecting me to draw back and punch him. He let go of his staff as he staggered back. My blow, however, went wide, catching him in the cheek rather than anywhere vital. I called my armor quickly.

Planting my foot on Raven's staff I pulled it free of Frostreaver's blade. For a moment I had a clear view of Mankar Camoran, sitting comfortably on his throne, watching the fight as though it were something straight out of the Arena.

Well, I'm not Agronak gro-Malog, but I'm no Yellow Team pitdog either.

"Eldamil!" I yelled, tossing Raven's staff in Eldamil's direction. I sure don't want Raven to have it.

"You're brave against the unarmed," Raven jeered.

"Don't be ridiculous – I haven't disarmed you yet. See? They're both still attached to your shoulders." I dodged left, successfully missing the ball of lighting Raven threw in my direction. It bounced, sending sparks everywhere, scorching the stonework of the floor. "Don't worry though, I'm getting to it."

Raven shouted something, laced with Daedric magicka. A large Dremora appeared from nowhere, holding the lead on a snapping clannfear. Raven didn't need to shout 'get her' before the Dremora dropped the lead to go for his longsword. The clannfear charged right at me.

It caught Frostreaver, arching up from the floor the blade catching beneath the jawbone, allowing me to use the creature's moment to fling it around.

Eldamil yelped. Ruma screamed.

The Dremora shouted, before I could look to see whether the dead clannfear, which I successfully flung free of my sword, hit Eldamil. I hope not.

I pointed at the ground, the spell for ice cold in my mouth, making my back teeth ache. It's the same spell I usually use for drinking purposes while in Oblivion. In this context, however, a pool of ice spread under the Dremora's feet, sending him slipping to the ground with a bone jarring thump.

Raven backed up, looking shocked as I darted past the struggling Dremora. How would he know how to cope with ice? It's not something which usually occurs in the Deadlands. Raven backed up, raising his hands to defend himself.

Frostreaver sang out as it ground against the Daedric mace Raven managed to conjure, it the moment it took me to get to him. "You cut my head off once," Raven hissed, flecks of spit dancing across my face. "Now I'm going to bash yours in!" But Raven wasn't watching me. His eyes were fixed somewhere over my shoulder.

This tells me all I need to know.

"Oh yeah?" I smirked, feeling the sense of exhilaration for the fight well up like hot water. I feinted back, then darted left, tumbling nimbly.

The Dremora, free of the ice, contrived to try to sneak up behind me. Raven's attempt to distract me failed in more ways than one.

The Dremora swung at my unprotected head, meaning to cleave me in half, or simply lop my head off, hair and all. However, my feint and dodge didn't let me down. A sickening squelch. Weapons clattered to the floor. The Dremora's stroke, which should have killed me, found its mark as the warrior staggered, regaining balance after the unwieldy swing which tried to follow me.

The unwieldy swing sank deep into Raven Camoran, who in turn dropped his weapons.

Mankar shouted.

So did I, and again, Raven Camoran's head bounced off his shoulders, landing on the floor. Lopped off by my hand, and my blade. The smell of blood filled my nostrils, revolting humanity, feeding the Dremora-ish part of me, which revels in death, and the exertion of martial prowess.

Oh, to be a head in life.

Ruma screamed as well.

The fireball hit me in the back, knocking me forward, across the corpse of her brother, which caught fire – or at least, his robes did – but only left me feeling as though someone punched me in the back. Getting to my feet I found the Dremora gone, the spell summoning him severed, Eldamil backing Ruma into a corner, and Mankar himself on his feet, looking shocked, livid.

"Hand it over, Camoran. Or I'll take it from your cold dead neck." I didn't fully realize it, but as I said this, one of Frostreaver's blades pointed in the direction of the fallen Raven Camoran, a wordless promise of the same fate.

It simply seems to me, it's harder to resurrect an immortal if they've had their head lopped off first. Not impossible – though resurrection should be – but definitely more complicated.

"You bark loudly, like the mongrel whelp you are." Camoran snarled, sparing less than half a glance for his fallen son, bleeding like a slaughtered pig onto the white floors.

"So says the half-mer." I shot back. I don't expect such jabs to rankle Camoran, but it makes _me_ feel better.

Mankar shouted, a spell, laced with Daedric magicka. Next thing I knew, he had crossed the gap, grabbed me up by my chainmail front, to hold me at eyelevel. Frostreaver no longer filled my hand, but Mankar's insane eyes filled my vision.

"You simple fool! I have the Master!" I don't know what spell he hit me with, but it was _pain_. Scream-stealing, heavy-breath inducing pain. "I have the Master's _blessing_!" Camoran roared. He slammed me to the ground with too much force for a simple throw. A telekinesis spell, cleverly pushed through his grasping hand, perhaps.

It didn't make the floor any softer, thought the screaming pain stopped when I found him no longer touching me. Eldamil shouted. Ruma's jeers followed, like jackals in the Alik'r. Camoran kicked me in the ribs, eliciting a scream, making me curl up, trying to protect my vital organs.

Dammit…I'll never get close enough…wait a second…I don't have to...I just need to hold on…come a little closer…

"I have the Amulet of Kings!" This time a foot connected with my forearm – he was actually aiming for my ribs again.

My eyes popped open. Camoran was close enough, coming to gloat, to rage, before he beat me to death. With a snarl I let the Dremoraishness wash over me, numbing pain, feeding temper. Kicking upwards, I watched with a twisted grin, the results of my unexpected attack. Don't _ever_ assume I've quit. I don't _quit_. I don't _fail_. I don't get _paid_ for failures.

And I have people – _living people_ – waiting for me to come home.

Camoran's eyes and mouth went round as coins as I clambered to my feet, glancing about for Frostreaver as I did so. Too far – need time to get it. "You've got my _undivided attention_." The words scorched my lips as I grabbed him by the collar, slammed my forehead into the bridge of his nose.

The bone broke. My forehead throbbed.

Throwing the shocked, dazed Mankar aside I ran towards Frostreaver, kicked out of my way, before realizing I had a _perfect opportunity_ to yank the Amulet of Kings off him.

Damn.

My knuckles scraped the ground as I grabbed Frostreaver up.

Mankar already recovered took two steps forward. "You're a dead fool!" He barked.

"_Deka-daka-deka._"

Eldamil took advantage of Ruma's one moment of distraction, driving a summoned dagger into her chest, right below her breastbone. She gasped, choked, shocked at the opportunistic move.

Why do people expect _fights_ to be _fair_? Or are they just unaccustomed to losing?

Stepping back quickly Eldamil pointed at Ruma a she crumpled to the ground. A moment later she burst into fire, but the lack of screams, or other response indicated she was already dead.

Camoran shouted. A telekinesis spell threw me back against the steps leading up to his throne, another pinned Eldamil to a wall. "Watch closely," Camoran snarled, stalking over to Eldamil, again oddly unflustered by the death of a child. "_She_ can only die once. If the bitch wasn't such a nuisance, I'd come up with something a bit more creative. I think it is fitting you should watch your final, foolish hope die. _Watch closely, Eldamil_." The last three words held power.

"You'll disappoint Kathutet." I shot back. Anger's making his casting unpredictable – or maybe it's madness. If he hits me with the right spell…

"He'll live." He eyed me up and down, as if trying to read something, then smirked. "Well, at least they got one thing done properly…" Fire appeared in his hands, dark shadows flickering over his manic, ravaged face.

Better than I hoped for – he thinks I had some magical ward to keep the fireball from immolating me.

Is _he _going to feel the disappointment.

The fireball hit. For moment I thought bones broke, until I realized the hot metal was too damaged for me to safely wear. Ice-spell in my hands, I managed to struggle out of the blazing chainmail, yelping as the heat began to leech past the spell's protection, burning me despite my protection. Apparently, it's not full protection…or maybe it's only protection against extremes in heat and fire. Or _just fire_. The chainmail landed in a half-molten heap, as I struggled out of the fire, retrieving Frostreaver, which is of superior quality to the chainmail.

Camoran looked utterly shocked, as did Eldamil.

"Oblivion's little gift to me." I rasped, feeling as though fire burned beneath my ribs, pulsing through my limbs.

Eldamil suddenly turned his dagger on Camoran. Camoran caught the blade in his hand, laughing as the weapon cut into his flesh. "All I need is one word…" Camoran spat.

Whatever he said, I didn't understand it. I didn't need to. Eldamil crumpled. I suppose as master of this place, Camoran would be able to kill off someone with a single word. But I'm not just anyone, and the moment he took to deal with Eldamil proved his undoing.

He didn't turn to face me fast enough.

I swung Frostreaver at him, a brute-force attack I normally wouldn't use. Camoran slammed into the wall, tripping over Eldamil's crumpled body, directed by the force of the blow. He went stiff, not dead, but in no condition to save himself. Frostreaver caught in his spine.

Damn.

Pulling it back Camoran flopped against the wall, flat. Exposed.

His head bounced against the floor a moment later, the Amulet of Kings sliding off with a resonant thunk. A sound incongruous to its size.

Eldamil was truly dead – no breath, no beat of life in his neck.

I hope Eldamil will finally find peace. Camoran never died before, so maybe _his_ death will be permanent…

--A--

Okay, my steady Internet had officially run out, so things are going to get sporadic. Anyway – I hope you enjoyed the chapter!!


	69. Chapter 69

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Sixty-Nine

--A--

The floor began to rumble, so slightly at first I didn't feel it. By the time I realized 'the floor is moving' the whole building shook, quaking like fury. Whatever magicka tied to Camoran died with him…I should have realized it would bring down the roof.

I snatched at the Amulet of Kings, the crystal warm, welcoming in my hand, as if welcoming my touch – though only for a little while. It's not mine. I don't want it. Martin doesn't _really _want it. But he'll accept it…because it's his duty. And he understands duty.

So do I, and to do mine I've got to find an _exit_…

The door leading out into Paradise remained sealed – Paradise itself is probably in the same state of collapse as this. It never occurred to me getting out was a weak point in the plan!

I nearly missed it. A small portal in a corner, barely larger than a door in a dwelling. Stuffing the Amulet into a pouch on my belt I clenched Frostreaver's grip, sprinting towards the glimmer of light, my one way out.

Rock from the ceiling crashed, forcing me to run like a rabbit, dodging here and there to avoid the hounds. I tripped the last few feet, flailing, falling, momentum carrying me towards the portal, but without any real control.

I fell into the arms of light and _cold_.

I landed hard, light blinding. Someone ripped Frostreaver from my hands as I struggled. It _hurts_!

I'm drowning it's drowning me I'm drowning I don't want to drown…

"Lirah!"

I can't breathe, why can't I breathe why is it so damnably _cold_…?

"Ailirah! She's in shock!"

Light continued to pierce my eyes, body straining to find air, breathable air…did I not make it out? Is this _death_?! My head is _killing_ me…

--A--

Mph. Comfy. Very comfy…but my head still hurts. Why does my head hurt?

Wooden rafters hung, half-hidden in darkness above me, awash in the faint light of the paper-covered windows and a dim magelight, burning above my head. Like a star. A pretty star just for me…My fingers passed through it, like touching velvet, soft, easy to tangle, but unlike the plush cloth, unable to stay tangled. The sleeve drooped back from my wrist as I reached above myself. An off- white sleeve, wide at the cuff lisped back from my pale, slightly pink wrist. Sitting up, I found the sleeve attached to a very simple dress of undyed, though heavy cotton. Slipping off the table…bed…no. Cot. The right word for the right thing. Bare wooden floor chilled my feet.

Where am I? This place is…it's strangely familiar…but oh _do I ache_. I feel like I've…like I was…what _was_ I doing?

More light caught my eye. Surprisingly enough, the lights danced slightly in the corners of my vision, remaining there even when I found the apparent source, a man dozing in a chair near the cot upon which I'd lain. His slow, even breathing makes him look asleep...but he's definitely sat up, watchful. That's thoughtful. I'll be the magelight is his…

But he's got pretty lights dancing all around him! Or around my eyes. That's not usual, is it? No, no I'm sure it's not.

Tiptoeing over, holding my skirts close to my knees, I peered at him, napping in his chair. I like the look of you. Though, you look so tired, perhaps you'd have found yourself better off if you'd simply gone to rest in a proper bed. Though I do appreciate the watchfulness. The lights began to dim,as my headache increased. "Ng." Reaching up I massaged my temples, dropping my hands when I heard the intake of breath, and the stirring of my watcher waking up.

Backing up I wondered if I should apologize. "You're awake." He sounded surprised, relieved, but I found my attention drawn towards the clear, brilliantly blue eyes.

"Lights," I announced cheerfully, waving my fingers indicatively at him. Is that usual? Surely you'd know…they're _your_ lights, after all. And very pretty.

"Yes." He answered softly, looking me up and down, though as if checking for injuries.

Should I be hurt? Except for my head I feel quite all right. Well, and my neck, and shoulders…well, I ache all over. But I still feel fine.

The lights, however, require an explanation. "Angel?" The best possible explanation – he's certainly handsome enough to be one. Though oddly, I don't feel particularly self-conscious. I thought I'd feel very self-conscious and insignificant, faced with something like an angel.

His face fell. Don't frown like that. I didn't mean...I'm sorry…just, please don't. It makes my _heart_ hurt. So much I reached up to touch the ribs over the painfully beating organ.

"No."

Looking around the room I tried…I should know. I should know who you are, if a frown makes me hurt like this. I…swallowing hard the name surfaced like a cork exploding from a bottle. "Martin." Yes, I'm quite sure that's who you are. I don't like this…this _gap_ in knowledge. It makes me uneasy.

Relief suffused his handsome features as he exhaled, nodding. "Yes. Do you know who _you_ are?"

Hmm. I didn't stop think about it – the lights were far more distracting. An interesting question.

I…oh…my head hurts…or my eyes, I can't tell…I really ought…I'm _tired_ of _hurting_…

Looking around again I began to chew my lip, then raised a fingernail to bite, only to find I'd apparently already bitten it down the quick. A faint pattern danced before my eyes.

Links of chainmail. Hot chainmail…burning. Searing…and I had to get it off.

"Lirah." Close enough. But they – people - call me something else. I don't _like_ the title, but I've learned to accept it. You warned me about it.

"That's right." Martin repeated.

For a moment I simply looked at Martin with empty confusion, mouthing wordlessly as I tried to follow the silk rope of tentative thought to the center of the maze of haziness.

Memory crashed back so fast and so heavy it nearly knocked me over. Disjointed images parading swiftly across my mind's eye, until I reached out to lean on the table. Dead. Eldamil. Camoran...Ruma, Raven, the Dremora overseer, the Dremora door warden…Paradise collapsed.

Here I thought my head hurt before. Well, it's _pounding_ now.

"How long…was I out of it?" I demanded softly, hand going for my temple as I looked over at Martin's face, which I now recognized as having a distinctly careworn look to it.

"A few hours." He answered soothingly. "You…you didn't take the return to Nirn very well."

_She's in shock!_

Yes, I was. And you saved me, didn't you? Eldamil…Eldamil warned me the crossing might not go well for me. I don't think I'd dare another. I'm not sure I want to know how long I was in Paradise.

"No…" Rubbing the increasingly sore muscles in my neck I continued to think, despite the pain. "So what…"

"I told Jauffre anything else could wait, until you'd come back to yourself."

"But the Amulet…" I should have it, still?

"Your recovery is first priority." Martin's voice was firm, resolute. "So don't go working yourself up. or…" a slightly wicked gleam came into his eyes, one which made him look roguish and boyish at the same time. A look which earned a smile back from me before he even finished his sentence. "Or I shall have to cast drain fatigue on you."

You don't know what it means to hear that. The implications are amusing too. My inner Dremora arched her back, laughing, hopeful to find out if he's joking, or if he really means it.

"Was it bad, over there?" He asked a moment later.

I nodded. "Pretty bad. But it's over. Camoran's dead. Where's my…where's my stuff?" I nearly tripped over my gear as I went looking for it, flailing to regain my balance. It was here I realized Martin was giving me plenty of space, as if afraid to trigger another episode. "It's okay…I'm just a little sore." Twitching my fingers, indicating he was allowed to come closer, I picked up the belt with my free hand, catching his in the other, once he was in reach.

"I worried."

Standing on tiptoe I let go of his hand, to wrap my arm about his neck. "I know." I murmured as he wrapped his arms about me, snug and secure. His hair slipped through my fingers as I toyed with it. "It's almost over." My lips brushed his as I whispered the words. "I promise." Memory of the Dremora's kiss rose in my mind. I shoved it aside, exchanging the memory for the kiss I really, _truly_ wanted.

Martin. My Martin. And for once, I didn't let thoughts of possibly empty futures, nor of rosy ones intrude. This moment was for now. And it's for us.

I let him hold onto me until his grip started to slacken, keeping one eye on my inner Dremora, who wanted very much to exploit the situation. Humanity won out – the good girl won out. "We need to find Jauffre – he'll want to know how the trip went."

Martin let go, cleared his throat, and hoisted an expression of confident composure onto his face.

With a wry chuckle I tucked my free hand into the crook of his elbow. Part of me doesn't want to know what it was like when I came back this time.

"You look good in a dress." Martin noted as he slid the door open.

"Yeah, I look like a real girl." I don't mind dressing like a girl.

Martin shook his head. "You always look like a…woman." He chose the word carefully, I think. "It's just easier to appreciate it when you don't look able to lop someone's head off his shoulders."

"Don't let my brothers hear you say that." I chuckled darkly.

Martin gave a disbelieving exhale – disbelieving anyone could be so _thick_ as not to realize what a competent person I grew up into. "Well, you've done bodyguard work before now. I have full faith in your abilities to keep people alive."

I laughed, but stopped short, stopped walking. The gesture made my torso muscles hurt.

"You were…very badly bruised." Martin offered, looking as though he was berating himself for making me laugh when he _knows _I hurt. Don't, really.

"Laughing is a good sign. It's all right. Camoran just kicked me around a bit. It hurt more when I kicked _him_." I couldn't suppress a snort. Martin winced. Oh yes, it hurt _a lot _more.

Even as I paused to think this, memory welled up. The memory of the Dremora's kiss already alleviated, replaced by Martin's, the loss of the little amulet made me cringe. "Martin, wait…"

He didn't ask what was the matter, merely gave me his attention.

"Do you remember the little amulet you gave me?" he nodded. "I'm afraid I've…lost it." The last two words came out hoarse. I didn't mean them to.

"Lost it?" His tone indicated surprise this should upset me so, for upset I am.

"One of the Dremora took…took it from me." I swallowed hard. "I couldn't…Camoran _melted _it…"

"I don't under…" Martin was staring at me as though he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. Though, this seemed to have less to do with the fact that I'd lost the token than with the fact that I was so upset about it. Dawning visibly hit him in a fraction of a second. "You didn't realize, did you?" He asked, looking as though he'd like to have kicked himself.

"Realize what?"

Martin ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't _realize y_ou truly believed me. It was…just a lump of metal with a few human prayers on it, Ailirah. Weakened ones at that. Nothing more. Any…any powers you thought it had…you attributed to it. It all came from up here," he tapped his temple.

"You mean...it was a ruse?"

"Well, not entirely, I _was_ still a priest at the time…sort of," Martin answered, shifting uncomfortably. "You needed a reassuring focus. I thought you'd just dismiss it, once you felt better."

I shook my head, then gave a watery chuckle. "Then…I must seem very naive." I gave a slight scoff, feeling the heat rise I my face. I suppose _now_ I can count on my own determination to get me from point A to point B…but I really did believe there was some small power in the amulet.

"You underestimate the power such faith has." Martin answered. It sounds like a priest-thing to say, but I can tell he doesn't mean it as a priest. There's too much knowledge behind the words. .

I know that for him, trust is very important. The amount of trust implied in my blind acceptance of what he said –with no evidence one way or the other – means more than he's saying. Possibly he's come to believe only children have such blind faith in words. Please don't think of me as a child. I wouldn't want that. "If you need, or want, another talisman," he touched two fingers just below my collar bones. "I shall find you one."

With a smile that twitched as if it might become a sob. I covered his hand with mine. "I suppose I don't need it, then. I got spoiled to having a reminder that..." The sentence died, at risk of sounding soppy. Ugh.

"That someone was waiting for you to come back safely." Martin finished. His expression lightened. I know that look – it means someone has a secret, so I didn't ask.

"Come on, let's find Jauffre. He'll be interested in hearing how things went."

"Yes."

It means a lot, too, that no one's badgered me about the Amulet. That I'm allowed to feel important in and of myself. That my life is more important than the key to stopping Mehrunes Dagon's invasion. It's an ego boost, but it also replenishes waning strength and fortitude, to know one's life is as important as the means to an end.

To not feel shunted aside in the quest for an inanimate object.

"Remember, you're supposed to stay quiet. No brawling, no yelling, no…" Martin warned, mock-seriously.

Sure, take a girl's fun away.

"Ailirah?" Jauffre sat in the great hall with most of the other Blades…which makes me wonder what sort of fight happened between the time I got back and the time I woke up, that Martin was allowed such extraordinary license to wander around by himself. Or perhaps, it was simply human sympathy.

Striding into the room, moving carefully so as not to betray my own discomfort (I could use someone to work on _my_ shoulders, now I come to think of it), a thrill of excitement rose like butterflies in my belly. I haven't felt this excited, this _pleased_ in ages. Stopping short of Jauffre, who stood up as I crossed the room, I fumbled in the pouches on my belt, slung across one shoulder for ease of carrying. Surprisingly, all undisturbed, as if they – everyone – meant for _me_ to present the Amulet.

"I believe this is yours," I produced the Amulet of Kings out of its leather pouch, dropping the belt heedlessly to the floor, letting Martin gaze into the red crystal.

Martin's expression of awe drained away slightly as he reached to touch the amulet, much as he'd touched my collarbones moments before – a touch I can still feel, burning like a jewel on a chain. Martin stopped sort, withdrawing his hand apprehensively.

"Only those of the Septim line can wear the Amulet of Kings…" The words came from my lips without conscious effort on my part. The Amulet seemed to draw all eyes, even mine.

It was one of those moments when you act on impulse alone, and everyone else is caught in the same impulse. I held the amulet by its chain and slipped it carefully over Martin's head, careful to keep it from getting hung up anywhere. The stone settled easily over his breastbone, looking as though it belonged there, had always _been_ there, winking and blinking at all of us form the backdrop of Martin's Blade-styled shirt..

"_No man can deny his destiny._"

I wasn't sure who said it. Maybe Martin. Maybe me, or Cyrus or Jauffre…or it could have been an echo in my mind. Or it could have fallen from the lips of all present. The air hung thick and heavy, but not stifling.

As Martin straightened up – he'd had to lean forward so I could slip the Amulet about his neck - I started to drop to one knee, but he reached out, catching me by the elbows, pulling so I couldn't finish the gesture, even though the other Blades had already knelt. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to.

It was painfully obvious that as both friend and errand girl - and I use the term with all affection – he didn't want to see me kneeling like that. I smiled and patted his hand and abandoned the attempt. "See?" I asked softly. "You _are_ Emperor Uriel's son."

Martin smiled and let go of my elbow as the Blades collectively clattered to their feet. "I…didn't really need the Amulet to tell me that. I've known it was true since you first told me back in Kvatch. Deep down, I recognized truth when she _shouted_ at me." I grinned – yes, I did shout a bit, didn't I? "But it is one thing to talk of becoming Emperor, and quite another to actually be the Emperor…"

"I think that you'll find you wear the mantle well," I smiled.

I could see his doubt, the fear that power might again lead him into trouble, and those who followed to death. "You're not that man anymore."

"Thank you." The two words conveyed more than simple thanks.

Patting his arm I answered back. "Trust me."

--A--


	70. Chapter 70

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy

--A--

As soon as Martin had the Amulet of Kings safely around his neck, a flurry of activity preparing for the trip to the Imperial City commenced. I, however, was escorted back to the infirmary, and told to take what rest I could. I would have worked myself into a Dremora moment in order to argue back. There's no way they can leave me in the infirmary and expect me to _stay_ there. "We're in the homeward stretch! Jauffre _can't_ cut me out now!" Oh yes he can, but technically it's not Jauffre I've got to win over.

"No one expects you to stay. But you're not so strong as you think." Martin reached over when I stumbled unexpectedly. "So rest while you can, where it's quiet."

"And how long am I supposed to play invalid?" I demanded, grumpiness getting the better of me. And I thought arguing with Jauffre was hard.

"We leave at dawn. A hard day's ride will bring us to the Imperial City before sundown. Jauffre…" Martin's verbal stumble indicated his discomfiture with the way things lined up to happen so quickly. "Jauffre hopes to have things in motion with the Elder Council, perhaps even so far as lighting the Dragonfires before dusk tomorrow."

That knocked my temper down. Talk about moving quickly. "Hey," I tugged his sleeve. "I promised to take you dungeon diving – you just tell me when. I'll find one with lots of dry, dusty skeletons. Or would you prefer squishy zombies?" I teased, feeling a trickle of humor.

"Hmm. Bone dust or mort flesh. Decisions, decisions." He sounded so serious I had to work not to giggle – the tone doesn't match his expression at all. "Depends on the sort of week it follows. Easy week, we'll fight skeletons. Hard week…we'll explode zombies."

"I _knew_ you had a couple adventurous bones in your body," I poked him gently in the ribs. "I'll even go equal halves with you on any artifacts recovered. I still know people in the business." I offered.

"Then dream of pretty gemstomes," he slid the infirmary door open. "Or exploding zombies – whichever amuses you more."

I can think of other things I'd rather dream about – but I won't say that out loud. "Don't forget where I'm stashed away." I sighed, feeling very much like summer clothes put away for the winter.

Martin nodded. "Enjoy your nap." He slid the door closed.

I made it to the cot with its heavy blankets, stopping to lean on it. Only then did I realize how tired I felt. Well, I'd not rested properly to begin with. I'm not even sure of the day – and I haven't asked. It doesn't matter, it's another detail which could cause me more disorientation.

I'll worry about what day it is, once things settle down.

Slipping under the blankets, I curled up on one side, facing the door. I'm not ready for the nightmares I _know_ I'll have.

--A--

Caro came to wake me some hours later, carrying a cup of tea and a plate of dry toast. "You're to eat at least one slice of this," she raised the plate, "before you're allowed to leave."

Rising sluggishly from nightmare laced sleep, I threw the covers back. "What time is it?" There's no light pouring in through the windows, which means I've probably been out for awhile. I took the toast and nibbled a corner. My stomach immediately clenched, too hungry to accept the food gracefully.

"Early – we're leaving very soon."

I nearly dropped the plate, ready to hop to my feet, find my proper clothes and get ready to go.

"It's orders. You should be all right for travel, but…well. _I_ thought your constitution as stronger than all this," Caro frowned. "He's just worried, I think."

She didn't need to explain who 'he' was, and I felt no need to tell Caro I could probably sleep for another month before I start to feel better. Still, there's strength in my arms, maybe things will improve once I'm not lying around doing nothing.

"He also wants to see you before you get tangled up in getting ready to go." Caro added as I sipped the tea, grimacing at the milky, sugary liquid.

But the warmth is welcome – my toes feel halfway to frozen. Something I learned in the Guild: if your feet are cold, all of you will feel cold. "Before or after I change out of this nightdress?" I grunted.

"After. Fresh clothes are there." Caro pointed to a nearby work surface where clothes lay folded. "This is it." This time, her voice held nerves.

"Yeah. This is it." I agreed.

"And you're sure Camoran's dead?" Her tentative tone implied she didn't doubt my aim, just wanted reassurance.

"Unless he can sew his own head back on, he's dead." I responded calmly. "Still, I don't expect Mehrunes Dagon to give up so easily…there's no sign of him, or his lackeys yet?"

Caro shook her head. "Not a whisper."

Draining my tea I set the cup down, walking over to the pile of clothes. From the creases in them, it shows they've rested in my footlocker for awhile – but then again, I believe everyone has a set of clothes they don't hate, but simply don't wear, shoved in the bottom of a footlocker or at the back of a dresser drawer. An emergency oh-shit-I-just-got-rained-on-and-covered-in-mud-up-to-my-hip-need-a-fresh-change-of-clothes, clothes.

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"No, just that he needed to see you before we leave. We're going by horseback – several of the Blades are already en route back from Bruma with horses. More have gone on ahead, to meet us in the Imperial City."

Good idea. It means less than ten hours of walking.

"We got word, your brother's going to make full recovery. They took him back to Leyawiin."

Which means Einar and Bellona _prevailed _upon Julius to let me get on with my job and not hang about like a worried mother hen. I love my brothers, but they are so _dense_. I didn't need to ask how Caro knew. Still, I _would_ like her as a sister. "How's Rols?" The silence, broken only by me getting dressed, began to press uncomfortably.

"He's all right. Getting used to things." She answered.

"Right, where's…" Frostreaver.

"Still under your bed." Caro answered. "I put it back after Martin and Baurus swept you off to the infirmary when you came back."

"Thanks."

Caro beamed. "Any time."

--A--

Martin was waiting in Jauffre's office, while Jauffre rushed around making last-minute preparations. Baurus and Cyrus once again – armed and in full armor – stood outside the door, keeping guard for Martin. Baurus wordlessly clapped my shoulder as I passed, to which I simply nodded.

"How do you feel?" Martin asked, the moment the door closed behind me.

"A little tired. But I'm up for just about anything they can throw at us." I shrugged. "Caro said you wanted to see me?"

Martin got carefully to his feet. He too, wore full armor – though it bore no signs of patches, or damage. It's also more ornamental than the suit he wore at the defense of Bruma. "I told Jauffre I'd rather have my proper armor," he grunted when he wobbled slightly, the weight of the armor, different to what he's used to, causing his balance to shift unexpectedly.

"Why'd he say no?" I can guess.

"You know how it is. The proper show," Martin responded bitterly.

"Well, it still looks good." I assured him. It does – no one looks _fantastic_ in armor, but it is possible to look good. The reality of the cliff upon which we stand came to me in that moment. A staggering, cold realization, like the winds of Skyrim. Realizations, dark thoughts I have, until now, kept mostly at bay. They rose up now, howling wolves of icy doubt.

It's breaking my heart. In a perfect world there might be a happily ever after. But as the Emperor and a Blade…there's nothing but distance. Only loyal, willing servitude. I've known it in the back of my mind for a long time it would end up that way…so why did I let myself believe, for nay amount of time, things could turn out otherwise? It's ridiculous. This isn't a fairy tale.

But…I so desperately hoped…needed to hope there could be something. A light at the end of the long dark road. I didn't expect it would be Martin, when I started out….but it wound up that way.

"Ailirah?"

My eyes steadily drifted towards the floor during these dark ruminations. They snapped back up to Martin's face now. "Huh?"

"Your armor is ready." He repeated – with the look on his face, he's definitely said this at least once already.

"My…_huh_?" Last I recall it _melted_ back in Paradise…but I'm not telling him that.

This time he looked mildly amused. "You can't go to the Imperial City in just those. Truth be told, I think Jauffre's expected your armor to give out long before now."

So have I.

Still shaking his head at my apparent lack of focus (or attention) Martin fetched a parcel, previously laying on the floor by his chair. "Come here." he beckoned before unwrapping the article. My stomach jittered as I obeyed. I still need to get Mehrunes' Razor – I'll want that, I think.

Thoughts of preparation for the trip, for the impending possibility of final disaster fled my mind like dust bunnies before an industrious homemaker. "Oh…" I touched the silvery rings hesitantly, as I might pet a sleeping rabbit. "It's…"

Martin lifted the article free. A proper coat of mail, it would hang a bit long on me, past my knees. But the workmanship is _superb_. More than that, however, is the edging around the neckline and cuffs: a glass motif of flowers worked into the hems and cuffs, anchored and surrounded by heavy silvery thread, much as one might work decorative crystal, on a very expensive coat. The blue glass, I noticed right away, would match the glass in Frostreaver, matched the stone in the ring of summons.

"Did you color the glass?" I asked. Blue glass isn't common, in fact, it has to be carefully prepared, ususally by magicka.

Martin gave a shifty smile. "Yes."

This is, despite the fact it offers more protection, probably _lighter_ than my old chainmail. "I…"

Martin shook his head, dismissing whatever I meant to say. I'm not sure _what _to say, so I mumbled a polite 'thank you' without paying attention to the words. "May I be so forward as to offer to help you with your armor?"

Still feeling a little off-balance, I shrugged. It occurs to me he might not realize that, for me at least, the putting on of armor is usually a very personal matter. However, as he helped me slip into the lightweight chain, it occurred to me he knew. He really does know.

It's one thing for a knight's squire to help him or her armor up, they wear such heavy plate. For chainmail, or maybe just me, it's a little more…intimate, I suppose – watching the process of me taking the time to hide my own weaknesses under a coat of steely-strong rings.

Or to have someone else take the time, to ensure said weak spots are protected.

Martin's fingers traced my jaw, once the coat hung comfortably from my shoulders, causing me to instinctively look up at him. Leaning forward, he kissed my brow, then my cheek, gathering me carefully against him as he kissed his way down to my jaw. Our armor scraped softly, and I resent it a little, that he can't feel much through the heavy plate he's wearing.

It makes me want to cry – every touch seems to tell me he knows _exactly_ what's hurting me. That he still wants to kiss the pain away…knowing that's not really an option at this point. Or at any point, regardless of how the future pans out.

I begrudge whatever highborn bitch _they_ throw at him every second she can be what I can't.

The thought made my teeth clench.

It's breaking my heart. "Martin, I…" My throat constricted, cutting off my own words.

Martin straightened the seams over my shoulders. "Every knight needs a squire," he responded, his voice slightly husky. Maybe he's got the same fears I do: that this won't end with a happy ending, or with the finality of death, but with the both of us standing on opposite sides of a chasm neither of us can bridge. Forever in sight, forever out of reach. "As every Emperor needs a champion…" he leaned over, his breath tickling my hear. "Or an Empress."

Rather than give way to instinct – close my eyes and savor the way the words fell against my ears, pattering like soft spring rain – I forced myself practical. "Don't…" my voice cracked. "Please don't make me a promise you may not be able to keep." Biting my lip I looked up at him, studying his face for a moment as if committing it to memory before I continued. "Just kiss me for luck…and we'll see what happens." It cost me something to say it.

Closing my eyes as he caressed my cheek, I managed a tremulous smile. "I love you." I breathed. I'll always love you.

I heard the wry little laugh, the laugh of someone confronted by common sense, just before kissed my cheek, but it was still a very…almost intimate gesture, for being so chaste. "I love you, Ailirah."

I blushed. Can I call myself gutless yet? It was here Martin interrupted my self-recrimination with my real 'for luck' kiss – which was interrupted moments later by someone politely tapping on the door, then a gruff remark how it wasn't like we were busy.

Maybe not. Engrossed, though? Certainly.

The door slid open and I swear I heard someone's jaw hit the floor. Martin's hand vanished from the back of my head, presumably to nonverbally communicate 'I'll be with you in a minute'.

That's right – he's got to finish kissing his girl. Otherwise her nerves might fail before long. "I'll ask you again, soon," Martin breathed against my lips, probably inaudible to anyone else but me.

"I'll be happy to answer, then." I breathed back..

"Ailirah?" Martin's eyes danced with mischief.

"Hm?"

"You're blushing."

"Yeah, I know, and you're making it worse," I grunted with a nervous sort of titter as I stepped back to find Jauffre and Baurus both looking a little wrong-footed. "Ahem," I cleared my throat. "Um…so, are we ready to go?"

"Almost," Martin responded, returning to the real order of business, retrieving from somewhere hidden in by the desk, a tabard, which he popped unceremoniously over my head. Looking down – thank goodness, it doesn't cover the pretty glasswork - the Imperial Crest leapt out from the dark blue ground, the red dragon vivid against the white ground of the Imperial Seal. "Very few have done as much in the service of the empire, or the emperor as you have," Martin announced quietly. "Hopefully, people will know, very soon."

--A--


	71. Chapter 71

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy One

--A--

I've seen the Imperial Palace many times, but never from the inside. Inside it's surprisingly dim, or maybe because the Full Council's not convened. Form what Jauffre says, they're back in their provinces, except for the Inner Council, dealing with all sorts of problems.

Sounds like rats leaving the sinking ship to me.

I squared my shoulders, running over my instructions from Jauffre. All this next bit is highly stylized, ritualistic rubbish. I don't see why we need to go through the word motions when we're in the middle of a _crisis_, but Jauffre insists. And I don't think I could bring Martin to look any more pale and queasy than he's trying not to look.

I love my new armor. It's so light, and pretty! I know it shouldn't matter, but it does. Or maybe it's just the personal attention paid to make the glass decorations blue. As nice as the armor feels – such as armor can feel nice – I feel equally _odd_ trying to find a demure way to carry Frostreaver, especially since I had my Akaviri katana strapped across my back – Jauffre insisted, for the sake of propriety, because the katana is widely regarded as the symbol of a Blade – and Mehrunes' Razor secreted away in my boot. You never know – I _want _that damnable thing here…I enjoy the irony - I didn't even have to do anything horrible to get at it, and it may yet aide _us_ in fighting the good fight. Dagon shouldn't leave his crap lying about. It's a bad habit.

"Blade, state your business," the guards at the door stepped forward and I stopped.

"I am Ailirah, the Gatewalker. Knight-Sister of the Order of Blades. I am here to carry a message to the Elder Council's High Chancellor, Ocato, from Cloud Ruler Temple. The matter is urgent." I don't think I left anything out.

The guards exchanged looks and I saw their eyes pass me to look at the end of Frostreaver, sticking up behind my shoulder, glittering cold in the golden light of the palace. "Pass on, Knight-Sister," they stepped aside, pushing the doors behind them open.

Taking a deep breath to calm my nerves – halfway finished - I strode into the large council chamber to see Ocato sitting at the table. He looked like he was praying, his head buried in his hands. I never saw an elf look so old; old and careworn.

"Chancellor Ocato." The two words were like hammers falling on hot iron, like sounds from Einar's smithy.

The Chancellor looked up, then jumped to his feet – the most graceful scramble I'd ever seen, but I suppose it comes from being a mer. "Who are you?" Ocato demanded, his brows knitting together, his eyes resting on the sword at my hip, the sword in my hand, and the seal emblazoned on the front of my tabard.

"I am the Blade, known as Ailirah the Gatewalker," there was a flicker of recognition in Ocato's tired face, and again, eyes swept back to Frostreaver. "I carry an urgent message from Cloud Ruler Temple." Jauffre said start at the beginning every time I see someone new, and I have to explain myself.

Sounds like 'keep it simple' to me.

"From Jauffre?" Ocato asked.

"From Martin Septim." I rather enjoy the effect the words have. You could drown in the silence that fell. Yes, I'm playing for dramatics a little, but in a situation like this…who wouldn't? It's momentous! No one knew about Martin, but us, and even then, he'll be little more than a rumor. A figurehead in the far north – how many times do great leaders seem to come from the north? - to lead a desperate last-ditch defense against the forces of Oblivion.

"Martin…" Ocato repeated, though not as if he'd never heard the name before. Merely as though he hadn't expected to hear it.

"Septim," I finished. Resting Frostreaver's tip against the ground, leaning it against my shoulder, I recited off the message from Jauffre. Ocato's expression widened, the look of a man – or mer, in this case – grasping at straws. Jauffre, I thought he knew we were coming!

"Tell me, Gatewalker," Ocato took a moment to recollect himself. He'd blanched horribly when I explained the hold-up lay in the theft of the Amulet of Kings (though I didn't say who lost it, or who wandered around Cyrodiil like a sheep with it in her back pocket – I don't think his heart could take the strain.). "Do you believe his claim is genuine?"

"I put the Amulet of Kings about his neck myself – and there it stays," I shrugged.

Ocato nodded. "Well, the details are…surprising..." translation: _alarming_, "but the matter itself is not entirely unknown to us." My surprise, or disbelief must have shown, because Ocato nodded. "Jauffre submitted a report prior to the defense of Bruma. I hear you acquitted yourself particularly well."

"It's kind of you to say so, Chancellor. I did no more than anyone else who answered the call: my duty." He _knew? _Then what's with the scripted song and dance? We're wasting time.

Ocato nodded. "Excellent. I will receive the…heir apparent." Ocato again chose his words carefully.

I approved the word choice, even if I don't approve of the time we're wasting. Others might prove less…courteous.

Walking back to the door I opened it to find Martin, Jauffre, and the others waiting not far away.

Martin looked sheepish and kept shifting, the heavy mantle – one I recognized, having seen a similar one on Emperor Uriel – apparently causing him discomfort. Screwing up my face I silently asked what it was all about.

Martin rolled his eyes then nodded discreetly at Jauffre.

Oh, now _that's_ funny. You're going to wind up bullied by Blades _for life_. "Don't laugh," Martin hissed between his teeth as Jauffre entered ahead of me.

"I'm not laughing," I answered back, struggling to maintain a straight face. Not out loud, anyway, and it's taking a little effort. He looks so awkward. I know how it feels to look awkward. "Don't worry. It's almost over."

Martin nodded stiffly, as we stopped behind Jauffre.

Hang on. Something isn't right. I feel sick…looking around I wandered away from the others, not listening to the political-term laced chatter. Something's wrong. This isn't right…it's…I don't…

I caught it, like the faint breeze which carries the barest hint of tobacco, or of rain. Something spicy, sinus-filling. Burning. A moment later I could _feel it_. "It's not over…" I should have known. Whipping Frostreaver free of its 'at rest' position, I turned sharply.

The others either heard me move, or saw Ocato react, for I turned to find them all facing me. "What is it?" Martin asked immediately.

Looking skywards, as if I could peer through the ceiling, I stood there, listening for something indescribable. "It's _them_. They're not ready to give up."

"Who?" Ocato demanded, though he turned pale.

I looked at Martin, red eyes to blue. "They're coming. We need to hurry." The words weren't out of my mouth before I _felt_ the barriers between our world and Oblivion – one of the most massive 'bubbles' of Daedric magicka – rupture, letting the searing miasma of Oblivion vent into our world.

A moment later a runner burst into the Council Chamber, looking petrified. His livery indicated he belonged in the palace grounds, but his face was red, shocked, and sweating. He panted trying to speak, but I already know what this is about.

"It's the Daedra, yes?" I demanded sharply.

The man's eyes turned, took one brief look at me, then nodded.

Heat rose through me, as my personality tried to invert, the way it does when I cross over. "They're raised gates?"

"Many." The man panted.

"Come on. We're leaving." Jauffre growled to the room at large. "Baurus! Cyrus!" The two Blades, formerly in the hall, came trotting in, looking worried.

"Worst case, huh?" Baurus asked, looking at the tense faces in the room.

"Not yet. Come on – we can't do anything here, except let ourselves get cornered," Jauffre responded briskly.

"Right." I nodded. "Martin, Chancellor, stay towards the back."

"Listen to her." Martin directed to Ocato, though when we started forward he wound up trotting at my shoulder, behind Jauffre.

"I thought I asked you to stay back?"

"You did," Martin responded. "I simply decided not to honor the request this time."

A heavy sigh, and we turned into the corridor leading towards the exit.

"You all right?" He asked grimly.

I chuckled darkly: it's a popular question in times of uncertainty. "Better than we're about to be." I grunted. The feel of Oblivion pressing in about me did nothing for my temper, or my fortitude, or even my constitution. Clammy gooseflesh rose up on my skin.

I felt them before they kicked the door open, a small band of Dremora, no doubt sent as an advance guard to block our escape. I didn't flinch or even break my stride, simply quickened my pace to meet them, feeling the war within myself, humanity versus the Dremoraish nature I've picked up. The ability to channel that fight towards something in my way may not prove the most effective method of sorting myself out, but it's a close second.

Four Dremora, four Blades, two mages – the fight didn't last long, though by the end of it I could feel my brain pounding in my head, only vaguely aware of the standard Imperial guards hovering like so many overanxious governesses.

And just about as useful in a crisis.

The sky above showed red, hazed with the miasma of Oblivion. Heat burst from the many Gates I could feel. Dremora's shouts mingled with the screams of the citizenry, roars from the local guards. The thick feel of magicka wafted from the direction of the Arcane University.

I hope Tar-Meena is all right.

"Come on!" I grabbed Martin's arm and pulled, before letting him go, wading forward into the streets, one thought burning in my brain. _Get to the Temple_. If he says we can still stop it, I believe him. Just short of the half-open gate to the Temple District – which evidently the gate guards meant to close, a task at which they failed – I stumbled over nothing, crashing to the ground as if hit over the head. For a moment I thought I'd split in two. Pain roaring between my ears, displeasure, anger…

_How dare they? HOW DARE_ _THEY_?!

No, no, no, he can't be here you can't be here…you're not allowed!

Claws raked across my unprotected mind, Mehrunes Razor in my boot felt…_bloody_. Saturating. Squirming in a desire to return to its Master's hand. Blood spurted from my nose. If I cough, as I feel the need to, I'm sure I'll cough bloody phlegm. The burns I'd once sustained didn't reappear, but the skin burned as if in memory of the wounds.

"Ailirah!" Martin hauled me to my feet, pressing a healing spell against the bridge of my nose, but I notice, his complexion's gone chalky. As if he can read the cause of the sudden collapse in my eyes. The hand gripping my wrist shook slightly.

"I'm sorry." The two words were the only ones I could find, before I slipped through the gates, ignoring the questions of 'what's she talking about?'.

Mehrunes Dagon himself stood in the Temple District, near the Temple of the One, looking as though he'd just crawled out of Oblivion. A hundred feet high at least, four-armed and furious he threw his head back and roared, the sound tearing through mortal ears.

My inner Dremora quivered.

"He…he can't…" Jauffre stammered.

"He is." Baurus' voice answered.

"I don't… Martin cleared his throat. "I don't think lighting the Dragonfires will save us anymore. Not if he can breach the barriers, as he's done."

"Then…what? Should we just get you out of here? Fall back…?" The plan sounded weak, and about as helpful as a suicide run.

For a moment Martin was silent, then his hand gripped my arm. Resolution showed, boldly etched in every line on his face. Resolution and…fear. "We can still do this," his words sounded oddly angular, as if they hurt his mouth. "I have to get to the Temple of the One – it's too late for the Dragonfires but…I have an idea."

"Hey, his ideas are usually pretty reliable," I responded, though what I really wanted to as was 'what's got you so shaken'. Apart from the obvious I mean. "He'll be looking for you – can probably see the funny lights you cast." I reasoned, my stomach dropping into my boot heels. "I'll buy you some time, I'll bet he'll recognize _me_ too." I've cause Mehrunes Dagon enough trouble to warrant recognition. He might have to _squint_ but still…

Reaching into my boot I pulled out Mehrunes Razor, releasing Frostreaver. I'll need a little more accuracy than bumbling about with both hands full allows. "I suppose I should give this back to him…"

"What the hell?" Martin roared as I flicked the blade open, with a sinister _shk_. "How long have you had that evil thing?!" He demanded sharply, spinning me about to face him. Despite his sharp tone, the expression on his face was more of concern than anger, and more than either of those, shock I had the thing and managed to keep ti a secret.

Long enough, why? "What did you think I went looking for that time? Tea and cakes?" I roared back, temper, fear, stress, all of it getting the better of me. "If it's his, chances are it can _hurt_ him…"

"He will _kill_ you..." Martin snapped back, his expression fierce, adamantly forbidding me to go pick a fight with the Great Red Giant over there.

"Yeah, well he'll kill _all_ of us if we don't do something!" I bellowed. No Thu'um, just a great pair of lungs.

"We need a _plan_, not nonsensical heroics!" Martin shouted finally, losing all sense of discretion. I don't think he's angry at me. He's just…afraid. Of more than Mehrunes Dagon…and that makes _me_ afraid…and makes it easier to bellow back.

"Uh, guys?" Baurus asked quietly.

I took a step back, the comment about nonsensical heroics _hurt_ like a slap. Fear gave way to anger. "Nonsensical heroics, is it? Then get your ass back in the castle, _Emperor, _and let the Blades get on with their jobs!" I took another step forward, vaguely aware that attention of those around us seemed split, between Martin's and my row – our first real row – and something I didn't choose to look at, at the moment.

"Enough of this!" Jauffre snapped, stepping forward and giving Martin and I both a push, indicating we should both take a few paces back, away from each other. "This is no time to bicker like children!"

Martin looked liked Jauffre had slapped him. I grimaced, too. I do _not_ argue like a child!

"_Are_ we interrupting?" A calm voice demanded, dry and mildly surprised.

Turning I found myself looking at Dagmar, dressed head to toe in dark leathers, her eyebrows arched with an elegance I could never manage. "Because if you haven't noticed," she continued, "there's a war on." She nodded in the direction of Mehrunes Dagon. "Just there."

"_You_…" Jauffre immediately recognized something about the two men with Dagmar, neither of whom I've ever seen before. Still, all three are raising my hackles. I don't think I like the look of the two men.

Baurus and Cyrus both went for weapons, pushing past Martin and I. For a moment, Martin and I exchanged confused looks. "She helped me close the Gate at Kvatch," I murmured to him.

"Ah."

"I'd put those away before you make a life-ending mistake." The dark-haired Imperial remarked, rather politely for someone being threatened by Blades, though it was by no means a polite request. It's the sort of tone I'd expect to come before disembowelments and slow deaths.

Dagmar's taste in accomplices is all in her mouth. These two look good, but they also look like they belong in _prison_.

"This is hardly the time for this nonsense—call your mutts off, Ailirah," Dagmar addressed me, rather than Jauffre, "or face _that_ alone." She waved to Mehrunes Dagon, busy kicking helpless men and mer over the city walls.

I've seen little boys behave similarly to anthills.

"Oh…it's you…I wondered if you were gonna show up," all bravado, but no one else seemed to catch this, and I didn't look over at Martin to see if he did. "You usually do, but I'm a little surprised by…"

"Cut the babble, you're not fooling anyone here." Dagmar responded, more businesslike, "You need a distraction. It took some doing to _get_ here—I'll be _very_ disappointed if you _don't point those frog-stickers in a more useful direction!" _She ended in a snarl directed at Baurus, who gave her a very ugly look, and Cyrus, who followed his superiors' leads. Jauffre didn't look happy either – I think he and the tall skinny one know each other. Come to that, the skinny one looks sort of ill. Should he even be here?

"We don't have time for this—you heard her," I growled. Don't make me think for people today, I've got enough on my plate! It's big, it's red, it's got four arms, lots of teeth and a _nastier temper than I have! _Definitely, something we should _all_ worry about!

"But they're Dark..." Baurus protested.

Oh really? Now _that _I _didn't_ know…and I wonder how you do. I'll ask later, it's not important _right now_. "I _know_, it's kind of _obvious_, but right now, I'd accept help from blue _monkeys_, okay? We're in a crunch, and we're wasting time, right?" I turned to Martin who nodded in agreement.

Damn, we make a great team when we're not engaged in shouting matches.

"We've got to get to the Temple, now." Martin's tone indicates we really were running out of time.

"Okay," I gave up the argument, nodding. If Dagmar wants to run around as bait, let her.

"If you intend to run for the Temple, I do suggest you begin _now_—he _will_ tear this city apart, looking for the priest…ah, Emperor, of course," Dagmar's Imperial companion remarked idly. I don't like, this guy – watch your mouth or I'll knock in your teeth.

"Indeed," Dagmar gave the Imperial a scathing look, "I suggest you pull it together—even we can only buy so much time," unshouldering her bow, she selected an arrow.

"Wait…wh…" I protested. That easy? You're just going to stick arrows in Mehrunes Dagon?

Dagmar sighed in annoyance. "You'll talk us all into an early grave, girl. We have no interest in seeing the Daedra come to power—it would render us obsolete. We are, whatever else, a business…and as long as there are men and mer…"

"Business is good," the Imperial purred idly.

"Yes, business is very good. Now go!" Dagmar barked at us.

Martin and I didn't wait. We're out of time, and so we sprinted forward, I exchanging the Razor for Frostreaver, intending to cut a bloody path from the Gates and the Blades to the Temple of the One if I have to.

--A--


	72. Chapter 72

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy-Two

--A--

Mehrunes Dagon couldn't see us, or didn't. Or maybe he meant for his goons to try and corral us in the Temple. Grabbing Martin's elbow I flung him across the threshold. Almost too slow, Frostreaver hissed through the air, lodging itself in Daedric armor, before a shock spell leapt past me, sending the Dremora hurtling back into his comrades.

"Get out of the doorway!" Martin barked. Forcing the heavy doors closed, I threw the bar – something the priests had not managed to do.

Magelights flickered immediately. Mine took effort, as if the press of Daedric magicka stunted my own. Or maybe it's nerves.

"Quickly." Martin stood halfway back, looking at the pyre where the Dragonfires should burn. The sounds of the Dremora beating on the door echoed slightly in the large room with its vaulted ceiling.

"Now what?" My voice came out hoarse.

Martin took off the Amulet of Kings, gazing into it, as though it might give him words of comfort, or instructions.

My blood chilled. "Martin?" My voice sounded heavy, uncertain. I've got a bad feeling about this.

Martin looked up, gripping my shoulder. "I'm sorry."

"For what…" I didn't finish the sentiment. Martin pushed against my shoulder, a push augmented by a telekinesis spell.

For moment I didn't see Martin. I saw, out of memory, Uriel throwing me against a wall so he could go to his predicted death without any heroic attempts to save him. "No!" My voice broke as I slammed into a wall, unable to free myself, unable to retrieve Frostreaver…unable to stop him.

Horror rose like panic.

Martin climbed up onto the Dragonfires' pyre, before turning to give me one last look, a look which burned itself into my memory like a brand. "I do love you."

He smashed the Amulet. All the abuse, all the crap that hunk of rock's gone through, and this time it shattered like cheaply made glass. For a moment nothing happened. Martin simply stood there, white-faced, blood – perhaps from the Amulet, perhaps his own, or even both – dripping slowly from the shattered remains of what we thought was part of our last hope.

Brilliant lights exploded, not in the fringes of my vision, but across my eyes. My scream of pain, of terror, a wordless plea for him to find another way – any way - was drowned out by a roar which deafened, shaking me to my core, shaking the world around me. Rock rained from the ceiling. Through the white light lancing through my eyes tried to pick out where Martin stood, only to find the massive haunches of a fiery dragon, large enough to rival even Mehrunes Dagon.

This is, of course, why the ceiling is caving in – the Dragon's head and shoulders, the massive wings exploded from the domed roof as if hatching from an egg.

For a moment I could see, through the lights now dissipating, through the ruins of the Temple roof, Mehrunes Dagon – or at least his face. The Dragon, Martin, reared back its long neck and hissed, wings flaring in challenge.

Mehrunes Dagon shouted back, the words all Daedric, but the gist painfully clear. I had to shield my eyes, unable to free myself, either to assist or to take cover, the spell holding me so strong I doubt even Archmage Traven could have ended my stint as a parody of a portrait.

The first blow of Martin, the Avatar…whatever, against Dagon sent more rubble crashing to earth – he's still corralled by the stonework of the Temple. I screwed my eyes closed. The noise left my ears ringing, pain searing through my head. The sounds of massive body slamming into massive body with bone-shattering force lanced through my attempts to block the scene out.

The dragon screamed. In pain or rage I can't tell.

Mehrunes Dagon roared, but the roar turned to a scream of pain. My eyes popped open, immediately fixing upon the struggle. Part of me wondered why the Dremora pursuing us never burst through the Temple doors.

Maybe they didn't want to end up literally under foot.

For a moment they stood, Mehrunes Dagon clawing at the dragon, as if trying to tear out its heart, the dragon's teeth suddenly clamping solidly across Dagon's throat. Dagon rasped, struggled, but the Dragon had the upper hand, clawing at Dagon's bare chest and belly with clawed forefeet. Blood flowed like water, the smell of it so thick it made me nauseous.

Suddenly, Dagon's attempt to roar faltered. The air behind them split open. A fiery tear unlike anything I ever saw before now – a Gate with no anchor. Just a split, a rip, in the fabric between the worlds. Yelling in pain, something, perhaps my inner Dremora, tried to leap out of my chest, dragged towards the fiery maw, Martin's spell still holding me away from the pulling force. Without the spell, no doubt, I'd find myself inexorably pulled towards the tear. Even the Avatar seemed to have trouble backing away from the sucking maw – though perhaps because his jaws remained clamped around Dagon's throat.

Mehrunes Dagon suddenly pulled free of the Avatar, still clawing at the dragon's heart, leaving long gashes of brighter light, as if he were prying scales loose. The Daedric Prince's scream of 'no - damn you' tore through my head as painfully as his appearance had. For a moment all I could hear was something rushing, screams, shouts, hoarse cursed and fluent Daedric profanities…as all things under Mehrunes Dagon's sway were dragged back to portals, or through the rift.

The Avatar must have somehow broken Dagon's power. Balance realigning with the defeat of the one upsetting it.

Then everything went silent, my own ragged breathing and the ringing in my ears the only sounds I could hear. My nose bled again, though which event triggered it I can't say.

The spell holding me back dissolved, letting me crash to the floor. Panting, sobbing, I couldn't even reach to stem the flow of blood from my nose. I let it drip, shaking at the sudden nonexistence of the Daedric magicka in the air, the oppressive weight of Mehrunes Dagon's presence.

The silence pressed against my eardrums, so loudly I thought perhaps my hearing was gone. I made myself look up. The Dragon still stood before me, reared on its hind legs, neck flung back as if to strike…only stone…but Dagon was gone…

My head flopped forward, for moment darkness seized me, though whether for a moment, or ten, or a hundred, I don't know. Relief and fear battled so fiercely I didn't know whether to cheer or cry.

"Did you see that?!" A female voice demanded, sharp and tense. "That was…wow! Haha! Just _boom_!"

"I saw it…but I don't believe it," came the low-pitched response. There was something rough in the voice, though not crude or uncouth. A moment later the owners of the voices appeared, entering the ruined Temple through the now-ruined doors, gaping at the dragon.

"Whoa…look at the size of it, Ags…" She has blue hair.

I must have taken a blow to the head. It's knocked me crazy. But people means I have to get up – I can't lie around sprawling like a lackwit after too many tankards. Staunching my still-bleeding nose with my hand, I found it had almost stopped.

Struggling to my feet, the noise brought both the woman and her companion – none other than the notorious Agronak gro-Malog, the Imperial Arena's Grey Prince – running. "It's…hey." Something crunched under Agronak's feet as I looked for, found, and retrieved Frostreaver. "Hold on a moment."

"Ags! She's hurt!" The lady with the blue hair chided, sweeping past him, her robes –and she wore several layered over one another, strode over. The blue hair matches her eyes, oddly enough…Sweet honey on toast even her _eyebrows _are blue!

However, she also waved hand in front of my face, scowling thoughtfully. The blood stopped dripping from my nose. Sniffing hesitantly I nodded "Thanks."

"No problem. Are you sure you're okay?" She frowned.

"Martin?" Ignoring both Agronak and his…whoever she is, I stumbled forward, feeling relief as a tentative giggle escaped my mouth. "Martin?" Scrambling onto the plinth, I poked about, looking for him. Surely he was alright. The dragon won…he's just…he's just sprawled somewhere out cold…somewhere.

"Is she okay?" the woman was asking.

"I…guess…um, Martin?" Agronak took up my call, clanking forward. It's entirely possible he doesn't know who I'm looking for. More people began to trickle in.

I met Agronak on the other side of the statue, something crunching underfoot.

Glass on the ground. leaning over to investigate, Agronak cleared his throat, holding in his hand…the shattered remains of the Amulet of Kings. Feeling cold, I scooped it from him, ignoring his 'sorry'. This must be what he stepped on earlier.

Looking around again a chasm of fear opened up in my heart so quickly I couldn't even brace for it. "Martin…please come out…it's not funny…" I breathed, knowing no one would hear me, unless he was very close. "Please…"

"There's no one else here…" Agronak said, his orcish features contorted into a scowl I realized must be concern.

The shattered glass of the Amulet of Kings – for it looks like only glass now – cut into my hand as realization welled up in me, surging from the pit of despair to my mouth, manifesting in a scream appropriate to a scream of torture.

Because while Dagon is gone…so is Martin. And my scream raised in pitch and volume and power, the closest I've ever come to feeling Thu'um in my voice…but it does me no good now. No spell can bring back those who are gone. None.

But we won. We were supposed to win. And because we won…it's not supposed to end like this.

Vaguely aware of any reality past he's gone, I leaned against Agronak's arm, once the scream ended, my throat raw and scratchy.

"Ailirah?" the voice belonged to Baurus, immediately followed by Cyrus, Rols and Caro.

Looking up at Baurus my heart lurched into my throat. Jauffre wasn't there. "Jauffre's not…" I looked off to Baurus' right.

"Yeah." Baurus shook his head, looking torn, in as much pain as I felt. "Where's…"

Slowly I shook my head, holding out the broken Amulet. In an ideal world, it would start to rain, right about now. However, the world's far from ideal, as this whole stupid situation goes to show. The city continued to burn, people needed rescue…but Martin Septim was dead.

And the sun came out, from behind whatever veil of cloud or haze it hid behind, spilling cheerful golden sunlight down through the haze of smoke rising from the city.

Manic energy welled up. No. I don't accept it. "We need to look for him." My voice sounded hoarse to my own ears, verging on desperate insanity. "Just…just because we don't see him now doesn't mean…the tear did weird things maybe..."

The gazes falling on me spoke too loudly: if I hadn't found in him the Temple, the likelihood was, he was nowhere to be found…

"We should do something for…for Jauffre's body. Ailirah…you and Caro stay here – Ocato'll show up, sooner or later." Baurus rumbled. I didn't need to see his face to know he was trying not to vent grief at the losses we've taken.

Martin and Jauffre. And who knows how many more?

Caro padded over, putting an arm around my shoulders.

"Baurus." One more thing I want to know.

"Yeah?"

"How'd you know she was Dark Brotherhood?" I asked softly, still watching the floor, counting the small stone tiles.

"What?" Baurus blinked in mild confusion.

"Dagmar – how did you know she was Dark Brotherhood?" Well, I knew she couldn't be Fighters' Guild. Too practical for a mage.

Baurus' expression crinkled as he scoffed. "Oh, her – I know a thing about her. It's that bastard Imperial she was with. We've…met before. A couple of times."

"So why are you still alive?" I asked mildly.

Baurus gave a 'hmph'. "Them what fights and runs away – he got clipped the last time and took off."

"I see," nodding I closed my eyes, the last vestiges of the burn from the light of the Avatar seeping out of them. "I'll tell Ocato what…when he gets here."

Caro and I wound up sitting on the plinth, my back uncomfortable, leaning against the dragon statue, as if I could draw some comfort from the stone.

Please, don't make me a promise you may not be able to keep.

Well…it's a good thing he didn't, then…isn't it? But the sentiment offers no comfort.

Ocato arrived not long after, looking overjoyed, though some of this vanished when he caught sight of Caro and I sitting near the statue, Agronak and his companion having left to help look for survivors. "Martin? Where is he?" Ocato asked, his smile fading further.

I tried to answer, tried to contain the fresh surge of tears, the pain exploding beneath my ribs, and failed. It was all I could do to flop forward, wrapping my head in my arms, arms on my knees, not hiding the sobs which shook me, rendering me unable to answer his question, scarcely able to breathe.

Caro's hand appeared on my back, a pressure through my chainmail. "He's…he's gone."

"Gone?" Ocato repeated, his voice thin.

"Yeah…apparently the Avatar consumed him. The Amulet's broken – Lirah here has what's left of it." Caro answered, her voice thick, but intelligible.

"This…this is..." Ocato stammered.

I looked up, red-eyed, teary, miserable, hurt, exhausted and feeling unmercifully isolated. "The beginning of the downward slide, Chancellor." I answered into the stillness.

--A--

To be continued...


	73. Chapter 73

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy-Three

--A--

The Blades took the body of the Grandmaster Jauffre Couerdelionne back to Cloud Ruler Temple. We also carried the shattered Amulet of Kings and Martin's sword with the permission of Chancellor Ocato. The battle in the city thinned our numbers, including Rols, Erina of the Gate Crew, and Steffan. I never before marched as part of such a silent, somber caravan. Grief made me numb to just about everything, though I wasn't the only one.

Five days after we returned to our stronghold in the Jerall Mountains, we found Jauffre's last instructions – which went into effect the moment he died. Baurus was, said the thick paper, to take over as Grand Master. When these words were read out, Baurus simply collapsed in his chair, hands over his face, looking every bit as pained ad helpless as I felt.

Two days after this, he called me into Jauffre's…now his…office.

"Sit down, Lirah." Baurus sighed, looking tired, drawn and pale, despite his dark skin.

I sat obediently. Honestly, I think some people prefer the change – I take instructions much better now, than I used to. Less fight, less fuss. I also talk less, it seems.

"How you holding up?" Baurus asked, his voice muffled the hands once again obscuring this face.

I shrugged. It hurts staying here. There're too many memories of him, and the wounds are too fresh. "I…it's just…too many things are missing." I finally answered.

"That they are," Baurus nodded. "And a few more things are going. I got a letter yesterday from Chancellor Ocato. He's requesting you to be reassigned to the Imperial City."

Swallowing, rather than give Baurus trouble, I looked away from him. "Did he say why?" I don't know what's worse, leaving Cloud Ruler Temple and the memories etched into its walls, or staying, haunted by what once was.

"Actually he did." Baurus nodded. "He wants to...to thank you, I guess, for your service to the Empire. Here." Baurus handed me two sheets of thick, linen-rich paper, their ends trying to fold back into the neat, envelope size to which they were folded.

Looking at the last page I found Ocato's signature and seal, the whole correspondence smacking of political posturing and empty sympathy. Pleasant niceties one was required to say, condolences to someone he barely knew, about someone he barely knew. Scanning over it I grimaced.

Imperial Champion my ass.

"I don't want it." I answered automatically. It's bad enough that I'm having trouble maintaining my composure, but to have to try and do it all the way through whatever ceremony precedes this supposed 'honor' is entirely unwelcome. With my luck, I'll end up in tears halfway through, and that is not the sort of reassurance people are looking for.

"No, I guess you wouldn't." Baurus answered, gently. "Still you should know…it was Martin and Jauffre's idea first. The likelihood is, Ocato got the idea from Jauffre." I'm sure he had not meant to tell me that, originally. However, Baurus is very good at gently shepherding people to do things. It's an inexorable push in a certain direction, and very hard to fight. I can't even argue with him, like I might have done with Jauffre.

I sighed. This is not something Baurus would lie about. "Do I have a date to report in?" I don't want to go. I don't want to stay. But I can't think of anything else to do. I feel so…so _helpless_. As though I'm suffocating. Drowning.

"He'd like you to leave as soon as you're able to travel," when I gave Baurus a curious look, he shrugged. "He's under the impression you're not well."

And I'm not, I won't argue that. "Thank you." Baurus, of course, would have been the one to give this impression.

"Also, this turned up." Baurus produced an unadorned leather bag. "Jauffre left instructions about it. It's for you." He slid it across the desk. "You don't have to open it here, Lirah." He added, a little to much sympathy on his face, and in his tone.

"Thank you." I'd rather do it alone. "Is that all you needed, Baurus?"

Baurus nodded. "Yeah. Look…would you let me buy you a drink?"

I gave a hollow laugh. "I could use one." The truth is, though, it won't help. There isn't enough booze in all the Empire to wash my pain over in inebriation because it's in my nightmares too. Drugs and booze will only make it worse – and then I can't fight the gentle, evil whispers of 'why didn't I...?' or 'if only I...'.

"Let me know when you plan to leave, I'll go with you as far as Bruma – we'll drink to…to the fallen, or something," his voice caught. He was holding up better than I was, but the sudden blotchy redness indicated clearly the loss of Jauffre, a father figure to many here, was just as raw as the loss of Martin – a friend and leader.

For me, he was more, so much more. But for the Blades, their last hope at successfully carrying out their duty.

Dead heroes. Don't we have enough? "Sounds good." I managed to answer, getting to my feet. Withdrawing from Baurus' office, I headed back to the barracks. He has more control than I do, but I'm sure if I stay, he'll break down, and that's not something he would want anyone to witness. Not when he's trying to fill Jauffre's boots. Of course, I know no one man, no one woman, can be strong all the time, but it doesn't stop us from trying.

And the Imperial Dragon Armor, usually reserved for Emperors only. And the title of Imperial Champion.

Empty steel and emptier honors. All I want is _him_ back. My eyes prickled. Clamping my hand over my mouth and nose, I tried to forestall the bout of bitter tears, manging only to sniffle a bit before the impulse to cry crept back a little way, waiting for another, better opportunity to strike.

Plopping down on my bunk I opened the leather bag – soft leather. Out fell a note, folded small, and a whisper of silver, which landed on the floor between my feet with a clink, when I didn't move fast enough to catch it.

Winking up at me, an amulet on a sturdy chain. Only, the chain isn't really silver. As I discovered when I picked it up, it's steel – but very finely wrought. I can't imagine what kind of smith-skill or magicka it took to work the steel into so fine a chain, yet it's very strong. Suspended from the chain a polished stone in a silver – real silver - setting. It took me a moment to realize the stone was actually a sigil stone, polished smooth, the fires of Oblivion still glowing like the fire of a sleeping dragon. And yet, when I closed my hand over it, to pick it up, it felt cold to the touch.

Holding the cold amulet in one hand I shook the paper open.

_Dear Ailirah, I pray to Akatosh you're not reading this, because if you are, it means you survived and I did not. I want you to know, I've re-written this five times already. I keep scrapping it because I don't want it to bring you pain…but I don't want to lose the chance to insert a last word, or several last words._

_I want you to know that you surprised me. You touched me more deeply, and in a shorter time than anyone I've ever come across. In a way I did not believe existed, much less existed for me. After devoting myself to prayer and penance, I lived my life in shades of gray, silence, and guilt. Doubt and fear entered the mix, the night the Daedra sacked Kvatch. From the moment I agreed to go with you, to meet Jauffre, I intended only one set of goals: to go, to somehow disappoint your Grandmaster with the way I had turned out, and to drown further in worry, anger, and doubt. _

_You were the shout that broke the silence. The remorseless application of vivid paint to the shades of gray I had, until that time, chosen for myself. A vibrant being with goals and ideals, and the strength, courage and will to follow those ideals. And to bolster the ideals of others. For I time I did wonder, whether you weren't some punishment – a standard by which I could be judged and found lacking. Slow realization eventually caught up with me, that you were neither punishment, nor standard, nor some strange torment. Of the two of us, only I showed a lack of acceptance, insisted on seeing the bad, on downplaying the good. _

_I find it strange. I gave absolution to many who came to me, while serving in the Chapel. And yet, I never believed there might be anything like it for me. I had resolved myself to live with the burdens of the past, to carry them without complaint, ignoring the festering bitterness I carried with them. That you, of all people, as I've called you before now, a truly good person, could look at the unblemished facts, then shrug them away as past mistakes long since atoned for, could accept past and present was not something I ever expected. Acceptance that one feels guilt, and yet, permission to move forward are underestimated gifts. But powerful beyond the usual expectations. _

_I hope to give you some small piece of mind – I don't think anything I can say here, black and white words penned on paper can offer any great comfort to you. No doubt you've found the amulet with this letter. Consider it a replacement, for the one taken from you in Paradise – though perhaps more useful. Neither spell, nor potion, nor prayers, nor even time can erase what your willingness to brave Oblivion, to do what needed to be done has caused you to suffer. This token may alleviate it, a little. At the very least, you'll find yourself aware of when your temper flares unexpectedly, when the Dremoraish shadows try to claw their way out. As the power of the sigil stone is bound, so will the darker aspects against which you struggle also find binding. It is not perfect, but it is the most I could do._

_I had hoped to give you this when I asked for your hand. A sign of a promise I would have gladly kept. I love you. In a way I never expected to love a woman, neither as a Sanguinite, nor as a priest, nor even as the son of a farmer. I was afraid our last words spoken might not be true, or might result from the heat of desperate moment before everything burned around us. I do love you. And won't ask you to forgive me for leaving you. _

_Martin_

My vision blossomed in salt water, rippling and distorting the world around me as I fell to the side, content to curl up on the bunk and cry until I ran out of energy for it, the amulet cutting into my palm, the paper crinkled in my grip. Neither provided the least bit of comfort. It was some time before I could stop crying long enough to look at the letter again.

The date on the letter, penned sometime between when we returned from the defense of Burma and the time we left for the Imperial City, blurred as my tired eyes filled with fresh tears. The implication of the last line all too clear: he wouldn't ask me to forgive him for leaving me. For the deep wound such a thing would cause.

Idiot. He doesn't have to ask…it's not his fault…I wouldn't…couldn't…he did what he had to do. And while the words bring no comfort…I couldn't ask him not to do his duty, any more than I could have asked him to stay in Cloud Ruler Temple, while the rest of us went to Bruma.

Swallowing hard I threw myself facedown against the bunk, the edges of the amulet cutting cold into my hand, but no more tears came to dim the pain. His last words _then_ were the same as the ones he penned…and I don't know whether to be grateful he didn't ask me to be happy and move on, because I'm not sure I can…

--A--

Baurus and I went down to the Tap and Tack in Bruma, mid-afternoon the next day. Yes, it's a late start, but for someone who can see in the dark, time of travel makes little trouble. I'm not afraid of bandits, brigands, or highwaymen either. I plan to take out a room in the Imperial City, and see Ocato first thing in the morning.

After I visit…

Martin's amulet hung on its chain – surprisingly long, compared to how it looks, safely hidden beneath my clothes – slightly cold against my skin. I've never known a reassuring chill until now. Between the time Baurus and I left for Bruma, and the time we sat down, some of the red has leeched from my eyes, rendering them mahogany brown, instead of garish red.

I have no doubt the color will come back if I take it off, but I don't mean to. It's a last little bit of him, and I need what comfort I can scrape together.

However, right now, my attention continually drags towards the little cluster of dissidents, all of who have had too many tankards. Complaints about the Blades, about the battle at Bruma, about the instability of the Empire…

"Don't let them get to you – they're just fetchers, Lirah," Baurus breathed, noticing when my eyes slid to watch the group out of my peripheral vision, my knuckles whitening on the handle of my tankard.

The Orc already had my attention, but the next words out of his mouth clinched it in.

"And now where's the bastard left us? At the end of ruin…" There was no alcohol slurring of his words.

Normally i don't care if people have opinions, but to say it so loudly, with so much vehemence...I've no doubt this fetcher could go on quite a while, and get very cruel with is words, the drunker he becomes. And the Dremora part of me was aching for a fight, to see if pounding the sneer off his face would, in any way, lessen my present troubles.

I remember the last time I picked a fight with an Orc. It won't end that way twice.

"Ailirah? Ailirah, don't…" Baurus tried half-heartedly. I jerked my wrist out of his attempt to grab it, rising out of my chair like a sea monster from placid waters, anger burning in the back of my head, Martin's amulet suddenly burning cold on my breast. I didn't feel out of control Dremora angry. I simply feel _angry_. Within the human range of angry.

"You wanna say that again?" I asked in a low growl, feeling my eyes burn. The red color probably seeped back, purer and truer than before, Martin's necklace icy against my flushing skin, the magicka in it trying to compensate the flare of near-Daedric temper.

It won't be perfect, he admitted it. But at least I'm not breaking things and ripping out throats.

The Orc turned. "Butt out, short-sheet."

"I asked you," I growled, feeling my own breath scorch my lips. "Did you want to say that again?" The hoarse note of Dremoraishness brought home the realization exactly who I am.

Who I was once close to.

Patrons began to scurry for the sidelines. Some grimaced approvingly, for the Orc's booming voice carried, and no doubt the volume alone offended many.

"What are you going to do about it?" He gave me a push with his knuckles.

I looked up, vaguely registering the look of unease on his face, catching sight of the red eyes, and the something not-human in my face. "Accept an invitation, of course." I breathed, feeling my composure flagging. If I'm lucky, I'll be able to leave before I start crying.

"Hey…I know you..." his friend got to his feet, the both of them looming over me. "You're the crazy bitch."

I smiled winningly. Same old, same old. "Such a smart boy."

I took an aggressive step forward and _hissed_ at them, feeling the Daedric leanings in me slam to the surface, meeting the resistance of whatever spells Martin worked into the amulet. I still thought the Dremora might come flying out of my skin to slam against the Orcs, but it did not. All humanity, all Dremora, wrapped tight in freckled flesh, bound with pain and sorrow, bursting with anger seemingly too big for my frame.

Speechless, they held stock still as I grabbed the original speaker's shirt and yanked him down to my eye level, glowering at him. "If you say that again in my hearing," I breathed, so he could feel the scorching breath across his nose and cheeks. "I'm going to cut out your _tongue_ and leave it by his grave. Go." I gave him a push, with more strength than a woman my size should have, watching him stagger. A shaft of cruel amusement pierced my current state of anger shrouded misery. One frightened look at me and he slunk off, followed by his now nervous comrade.

The bar remained silent. "I think I just wore out my welcome," I paid the barman, bid Baurus a quiet farewell, then walked to the door and retrieved my cloak, talk beginning to reappear in my wake.

Outside, in the cold, windy afternoon, I leaned against the side of the building, feeling the cold unnaturally clearly against my skin, the necklace a freezing band about my neck. I half-expected to feel it, cold, through my clothes. Only it wasn't, it lay an innocuous hard lump beneath my shirt, neither hot nor cold, so far as my fingers could tell.

Surging forward I headed for the stables. Might as well get a move on find out what Ocato wants in return for this dubious honor he's bestowing on me.

Because I know he'll want something for it – he's a politician, first and foremost.

--A--


	74. Chapter 74

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy Four

--A--

What Ocato _said_ was 'Imperial Champion'. What Ocato _needed _was a figurehead. A mascot. Which means I _am_ qualified, despite my best efforts, and which is also why, a month later, I'm sitting in the Council Chamber, listening to the politicos chatter and posture, wondering how they ever get anything done around here. It's ridiculous.

I'm not part of the Council. Ocato says, though, I should be. But since I'm not, and I _am_ the Imperial Champion, my opinion carried weight, even if I don't get to actually vote. It doesn't make much sense to me either, but I have realized, by now, that it's a good way to keep a finger on the pulse of the Empire...and make sure I know what some of these sneaky bastards are up to. At least _three _have eyes on the throne – and right now there's only one unknown standing between them and it.

But it's not the unknown they're expecting. No one's asked yet, whether I'm knocked up, but they will. Soon, I'm sure. It's a curious mix of anger and hurt. Anger that they expected him to pick up his father's habit of philandering, hurt that I have to live with the knowledge that I sacrificed '_us_', lest something bad happen.

Something 'bad' didn't happen.

Something _terrible _happened.

The silence brought me out of my reverie, breaking the seal of stopped time and broken heart. I didn't even look up, merely scratched one gloved finger against the device on the table, the only person in the hall who was not sitting properly in their chair (slouching, shoulders slumped, as comfortable as I could get, with legs stretched out, ankles crossed), the only one not paying attention (they've been at this for hours – I stopped listening after ten minutes – once I got what I needed to know), the only one who had yet to voice an opinion (indeed, the only one except perhaps Ocato who hasn't swung back and forth between stances.)

"It's bullshit." My words tumbled into the silence like rocks down a well, clattering until depth and darkness swallowed them up. I made it a point of looking around the room, meeting gazes as often as I could. "If it's just saber rattling, let them do it – there's little enough harm in that." Goodness knows there's been plenty in this room already, today. Thank goodness I'm not allergic to bullshit – though such an allergy would undoubtedly make some of these politicos happy. "The instant their hand goes for the sword, however…kick their asses of the face of Nirn. It's not that difficult."

It occurred to me after a few nights in the Imperial City, that I may yet have something constructive to do. It doesn't ease the pain, ease the loneliness or the heavy, horrible isolation I feel – mostly from my status as 'the half-Dremora'. But it keeps me busy. Protecting Martin's empire, what should have been his. It's the best I can hope for, I think, to serve as a faithful custodian. It's something I can _do_ to honor his memory. Actions speak louder than words.

A lesson these geezers could stand to learn.

And...I think Martin could appreciate it. Be glad I found something, some reason to exist....because without him, Id don't think I can truly _live_.

Glancing up, I saw Ocato's head fall forward slightly at my bluntness.

What were you _expecting_ me to say? Toss daisies at them? Ask them to play nicely? You don't _like_ it when I put people in the corner – to use a euphemism.

Others looked appalled. Those who agreed with me – as far as starting a fight – nodded. "Many honorable men and women – _ra gada_ – gave their lives during this city's siege, and at the defense of Bruma." I use the Yokudan word, because '_ra gada_' doesn't translate perfectly. It means so much more than merely a warrior – they're noble warriors, and even that isn't a proper translation.

If someone wants to get uppity, the majority will kick them out of the sandbox – it's the way the world works. No amount of political double-talk and long boring meeting will change that. Let's be practical: the Empire is falling, no, _trying _to fall apart. I won't let it. Ocato won't let it, but he has different ideas than I do about how to keep it from happening.

My throat grew constricted, aching with unshed tears. Unshed because quite simply, I have no more tears left in me – no more moisture to fall from my eyes than a thoroughly wrung sponge possesses. "They did so to protect the Empire. We must honor their sacrifices. And you may wish to remind High Rock," I added, on a sudden shaft of insight, "that Orsinium is _still_ a _staunch_ ally, and they would not be unopposed to _appropriating_ a few more miles of land."

They won't even need my help.

"You don't happen to know the _king_ there, do you?" One of the councilmen asked darkly, subtly implying I had no grasp of politics. An early mistake on my part, I referred to the Orc-lord Gortwog gro-Nagorm of Orsinium as a 'king', when technically he's not. It's a semantics issue. However, if you're _in _Orsinium, he practically _is_ a king.

I gave him a stern look, Martin's amulet cold beneath my clothes, letting me know it was still working, keeping my eyes from glowing ruby-red, keeping my temper under better control. I find I have better control as I learn the strengths and shortcomings of this magical aid. Right now, the chill seeps though me slowly – only someone who cared would have made sure the spell was so gentle. Still, I haven't had a major tantrum since the one at the Tap and Tack.

The thought of gentle touch, _his_ gentle touch made me want to flop my head down on the table and scream in incoherent agony. Instead, my fingers found the bump the amulet made in my clothing. "Of course not," but there was a harsh note in my voice, a hoarse not indicating someone had pressed one too many buttons. "But blood is thicker than water, especially in Orsinium. And one of his distant cousins owes me a favor – a cousin highly loyal to this Empire as it is." Bluff – I've been to Orinium _once _– just passing through. But none of these people are very good at cards.

Usually I can count on Countess Carvain to back me up, but she's not here. I never thought my ability to play and win at cards would be so useful in playing these games with this lot.

"Are you quite all right, Champion?" The Councilman representing…crap, I can't remember...he's the one who looks like an idiot mongoose…I can _never _remember who he is or where he's and I know they've told me...Ocato even mentioned it earlier because he knows I forget…

Valenwood. He's from Valenwood. A half-Bosmer like Mankar Camoran, but unlike Camoran, he's a complete idiot. Valendoow...and his name starts with a 'V' as well.

"I'm fine." I answered, dropping the wracking of my numbing mind in favor of something a little less fruitless and possibly more diverting, a reason to vent at someone, because here it comes. I looked over at Ocato. If you don't derail this argument, it's going to get _very interesting_ in here. I don't take slights against my honor very well, and I'm in amood to have a reason to take this half-mer's head off.

Metaphorically, of course.

"Well, you've looked pale for a month now, we were beginning to worry." The Valenwood Councilman smiled greasily, his tone unctuous.

I smiled back, thinly. Ocato closed his eyes. Meaning he's going to let me rip this mer apart, because I'll only have to do it once. Otherwise, I might have to lose temper, or vent spleen on more than one person, which ends up counterproductive, taking up time which could be better spent on other matters.

I also suspect Ocato doesn't like this Bosmer either.

"What are you implying, Councilman?" I asked levelly, feigning ignorance.

Taking a deep breath he exchanged looks with his competition – these three meant to find out how bumpy the road the throne is before they start plans and eventually turn on each other. They shared a momentary silence which seemed to culminate in an agreement. The rest of the councilors looked tense, one or two downright uncomfortable, though they didn't interfere, or intervene.

Smart move. I can handle this.

"I don't wish to be indelicate." The half-mer said soothingly, but it was not genuine. I didn't need to know him to know that. Some of these politicians, they're like sharks. If they smell blood in the water, they'll go after the injured party, whether it be another shark or not.

But his comment is pure and utter bullshit. I didn't smile any further, but I wanted to. I'm learning to dodge issues fairly well, when I take time to listen to those people waffle on. I'm also learning how to turn a conversation on its ear. Not always a useful thing, but sometimes, like now…

"But I do think this Council, has a right to make inquiry."

I don't. "About what, Councilman? I've already given you assurances that Mankar Camoran is dead, the Blades are hunting down the remaining Mythic Dawn members, and the less vocal Dagonites as we speak." I toyed with my water glass. "The Council should be happy things are as calm as they are. Imagine if word got out to the public, that the Mythic Dawn was _not_ all killed off. Or that Mehrunes Dagon still has followers about and active in the land."

Unease continued to fill the room.

"Of course, and no one here questions your contributions to those…most desirable events," The Councilman continued more carefully. I made myself look him in the eye – a tactic I'm learning unnerves 'normal' people. Particularly if they already have a guilty conscience. Now, I would never accuse this fetcher of having a conscience, but he does squirm like a rat in a trap. "Well, you were very close to Martin Septim, were you not?"

No coronation, no title. At least, far as this idiot is concerned. No, he was cringing back in Valenwood while others, braver, better men and women fought, bled and died. "As close as anyone." Half-truth. "I don't understand where this is going, Councilman."

He looked to his temporary cohorts again. Now he begins to look crass. "No one would blame you, my dear," he began greasily, "we understand how these things are. The imminent threat of death…"

"No, Councilman. I don't think you do." I stood up. "As I recall, you were in Valenwood, when Mehrunes Dagon stormed the City. You were in the Imperial City when the Mythic Dawn opened three Oblivion Gates, a Great Gate, and tried to push a siege engine into the city's outer wall. You weren't anywhere to be found when Kvatch was sacked, so _don't lie to me_." No hint of Dremora, just righteous indignation. "You're asking whether Martin got me knocked up." The words flew accusatory across the table. Some of the council members had the grace to look embarrassed at the bluntness.

Ocato closed his eyes, though whether in disappointment, or because he found these proceedings tiring, I don't know.

"It's no reflection on you..." The half-mer tried, seeing his argument about to crash.

"But it is." I said. "Under any other circumstances I'd be sneered at for such a thing. Time will tell, but I'll only tell you once. If anyone else here makes such a slight against my character, or Martin's, ever again, bring your sword and bring your lunch. Because I will call you out. There was nothing between us but mutual respect, and propriety."

It's true – this is the same weasel who, according to Ocato, argued against Martin's original claim because of lack of legitimacy. Don't worry – I know he has _two_ illegitimate children running around. I've made it my business –and the Blades' business – to know enough dirty secrets. And I will use them to protect this empire from greedy, grasping obnoxious curs like him. They would call it blackmail. A Telvanni would call it insurance. I like the Telvanni definition better.

I don't want the throne. But I'll be damned if I let someone like _that_ sit in it. Which is my real value to Ocato who, though we disagree very often, does have the Empire's interests at heart. I'm simply more vocal, almost expected to be more vocal, since I'm not a trained politician.

Within moments Chancellor Ocato dismissed the council, though he idly requested I stay put. I expected as much, hence why I didn't move so much as an inch from my spot. The door closed as the last councilman filed out.

"Ailirah." Ocato sighed. "I thought we talked about you and your language." I can be as blunt as I need to, so long as I don't swear. Ocato hates it when I swear – according to him it shows a lack of education.

Bullshit. You want a fighter, you get a fighter. You want a politico…don't you have enough, already?

"I'm a fighter, not a politician." I answered simply. "You know that." Yes, and I've leanred to curb my language somewhat. I think myself much better spoken these days.

"Yes I do, what I don't know is what can I do to make you take this seriously?"

"I am taking this seriously," I growled. "You have a problem, you present it, I come up with answers, or carry out the answer. It's the way these things are done. It's not in my realm of expertise to worry about what Morrowind thinks about the price of silk cravats out of High Rock, and whether they're still going to be available if High Rock decided to get nasty. My job is answers. My job is action. Debate is _not_ my forte, and you know it. Nor is this political correctness _bullshit _you people are so fond of. Frankly, I find it more insulting than the slang, most of the time." Closing my eyes I let darkness settle, massaging the bridge of my nose. "And I don't like that little _s'wit_. He had no right to bring up such a topic for discussion. Even if anything _had _happened, it would have been a private matter." I added fiercely. I was brought up that these matters are best kept private.

"As much as you dislike him, and as much as I disapprove of his question, Councilman Veyond has a point. You don't look well. Are you all right?" Ocato's voice asked. He at least meant it sincerely.

"No." I answered truthfully.

I heard Ocato sigh. "I am sorry for your loss. But you can't just hang onto it, it's not healthy." He doesn't think my daily pilgrimages to visit Martin, the dragon statue, are healthy. I can't even shout at him, that he doesn't know what loss is. I'm not ready to let it go. I don't know how. I don't want to…lest I began to forget.

But my composure is so much better now that I feel like I'm doing something constructive. I don't cry all the time – usually just as night. When things press in around me. "Maybe. But people don't stop feeling…just because the High Chancellor tells them not to. Though I appreciate the thought, Ocato." Half-truth. But Ocato and I are on the same side, more or less.

"Would you really challenged Veyond to a duel?" Ocato asked as I turned to go.

"In a heartbeat." And he'd lose.

--A--

I was not invited to join the Council the next day. This doesn't bother me – it means Ocato wants a word, possibly to let the other know I'm perfectly serious about their need of a sword and their lunch. It is, however, Roge's turn to visit me. Ever since I took out a small home in the Imperial City, the guys take turns coming up to visit. I imagine when work is slow, I'll pull myself away and go to Leyawiin.

Regardless, I find I enjoy their company more when I know they'll leave in a day or two, and I won't find myself entangled in the same mess as before.

Roge had a gift from Jules – more of the Yokudan tea I like – which I brewed for the both of us.

"You're starting to look a little better, Lirah." Roge sighed, running a hand through his now-shortened hair. He's still not back to full strength, and it shows.

"Thanks. I'm…I'm coping." I answered with a shrug.

"Coping," Roge repeated. "You know, Lirah – I'd bop Chancellor Ocato himself with Wabbajack if I thought it'd make you smile again. Say the word – long ears, wiggly nose – the works."

Looking up I managed to force a smile, which hurt to do, and only seemed to depress Roge further. "Willful heart invites rebuke," I sighed. "Perhaps the adage refers to conscientious brothers as well as parents." I answered, though without conviction.

"No rest for the weary?" Roge asked, taking a sip from his mug.

"I prefer to have something to do. You know Ocato's using me as a figurehead." I responded grimly. My word may not carry legitimate weight with the Elder Council, but, how did Ocato put it? My opinion 'still holds merit, worthy of consideration'.

"I'm sorry about your beau." Roge finally said.

I nodded. So am I. "Do you want to just…take a walk with me?" I offered lamely.

"Yeah, sure."

"Did Brutus ever get Skyrim's Teeth replaced?" I asked hesitantly as we stepped out into the bright daylight. Brutus is the only one who hasn't come to see me yet.

"Yeah. It's a real beauty. He says the balance isn't as good but you know. Emotional attachment. I heard someone commandeered the Bloated Float." Roge shook his head, disbelieving.

"Yeah." I nodded. It's bigger news than the Daedric doorway that appeared outside Bravil not long ago. We – that is, Tar-Meena and her associates - are pretty sure it's a gateway to Sheogorath's Madhouse. However, it also seems to be benign – nothing comes out that didn't walk in from our side in the first place. Ocato's dispatched guards to keep an eye on it, but most people don't want to get too close. And as it's in the middle of the Niben Bay, it doesn't look like another invasion.

Coming back to the conversation, I nodded again. "Apparently it got commandeered with an insane Telvanni still aboard. A fellow redhead, believe it or not. She did a real number on the pirates. Ormil is still trying to get the mess cleaned up."

"Telvanni are nuts – every last one of them." Roge shook his head.

This coming from the guy who was so tongue-tied when he actually _met_ one, I had to tell the woman he was a deaf-mute so she wouldn't think he'd lost half his marbles.

Good times.

--A--


	75. Chapter 75

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy Five

--A--

It started just after my threatening the Elder Council with duels for honor – a practice which probably hasn't actually seen use in years. I am officially _haunted_. By what, I'm not sure, but a haunting it is. It's definitely not Martin. In fact, I'm not even sure it is, or ever was _human_. Or a mer. However, so far, it's proved totally benign. A little breeze no one else seems to feel, whenever I get worked up, worried, or otherwise distressed. Sometimes, when the nightmares are bad, it's a smell, like roses. I can't see it, I can't touch it…but it can touch me, usually around the neck or shoulder. A friendly gesture, never inappropriate.

I thought for awhile I was simply going mad – but apparently no one else noticed my dip towards insanity, so I've simply learned to accept the little breeze, my haunting, as a coping strategy. It sounds insane, even using the benign term 'imaginary friend'…though I'm not sure it _is_ all in my head. Crazy people never consider the fact they might be crazy. I've had nightmares about it.

Repeatedly.

Now, three months after Martin's death, the rebuilding of Kvatch is well underway, the rebuilding of the Temple of the One progresses slowly. The intention is to expand it, and in addition to the expansion, add a sort of shrine in Martin's memory. I still visit him every day, but Ocato recently got a hold of me, and I suspect he's got some new scheme hatching which may take me away from the city for awhile.

That's all right. Councilman Veyond – the half-mer whose life I threatened - was removed last month from the Elder Council. Something about sedition, plots for violent overthrow and assassination. I didn't even have to point out this is Mehrunes Dagon's realm of influence, or ask him (a question posed purely for the sake of inciting a witch hunt and getting him off the council) whether he was a Dagonite himself.

His two temporary cohorts lost their nerve, after Ocato delivered a speech indicating anymore such shenanigans would be punished _very_ severely. My piercing glares in their general direction was the last nail in the coffin. I've never seen people sweat so much – not even my smelly brothers in the height of a Leyawiin summer.

This meeting actually consisted of several of the regional Counts and Countesses, in addition to some of the foreign councilors. The Elder Council is actually much bigger than most people realize. However, it's usually not a Full Council because of travel constraints, and other duties. The Counts and Countesses of Cyrodiil, for instance, all have a seat on the Council, but rarely actually come down to the Imperial City, which is why they have representing Councilmen. Here's the rub: the Councilmen chosen can't actually sit on the Council, or even attend the session, if the Count or Countess is there in person.

Countess Carvain and I voiced our approval of this speech over lunch together, afterward. We're not close friends, but the events at Bruma have given us some common ground. She's actually very likable.

Countess Caro, on the other hand, can barely stand to look at me. She's still smarting from her dinner party gone awry.

Actually, I find most of the Counts and Countesses are fairly amiable – except Count Hassildor, whom I've not met. Though he did send a suitably polite letter at some point, to congratulate the Imperial Champion on attaining such an auspicious post. He's got _beautiful_ handwriting.

Imagine the torture of answering these letters – my handwriting is horrible. I wound up closeted with Tar-Meena, scribing letters as if I were working with chisel and stone. But at the end of that session, my handwriting no longer looked like a child's scrawl.

Autumn closes in, I don't look forward to the winter. I hate the cold.

With a sigh I pulled on my cloak, hood up, and headed for the Imperial Palace. Ocato likes the fact I usually show up a little early. I don't know _where _I stand with Ocato, really. We differ on many counts, policy, usually, and his insistence I drop the word 'shit' from my vocabulary. Heh – not happening. However, at the same time I feel like he truly _listens _when I talk. Considers the intention behind the words, not just the words themselves.

My haunting brushed my neck when I stopped walking, taking time to simply watch people bustle about. Life goes on for the Empire, with or without the Emperor. For most people, anyway. I am cursed to exist – I can't call this living. "We'll be late." I sighed.

--A--

Thirty minutes later, I gaped at Ocato. Open mouthed, shocked disbelief etched over every inch of my face, suffusing my body posture. "You're...you _can't_!" The sudden shock of the news made me want to faint – but that is not only a wimpy thing to do, this is a flagstones floor, and with my luck, I'd hit my head on it. Hard. I don't need another head injury.

"Why not?" Ocato asked, looking weary. Good, weary. Means he'll put up less of a fight. Or more, depending on how serious he is.

"I'm not...I'm not _qualified_!" I answered, with a bleak snort that might classify as laughter. This is _ridiculous_!

"You're the Imperial Champion, and Martin's confidante." Confidante is the new word which the Elder Council has tactfully applied to me. It's made things easier, in some ways – though it hasn't made my loss any easier to bear. "No one will fuss. Particularly where I'm sending you." Ocato's mouth twitched towards a smile. I hate it when he smiles like that. It usually means stress and trouble for me.

"Look, if this has anything to do with the uncovering of Veyond's plans…that had _nothing_ to do with me!" Okay, I'm lying. I made sure it came to light, incontrovertibly. Baurus and the Blades were delighted to help. Anything to maintain the status quo of the Empire. We hold it in trust for…well. We hold it in trust – that's the end of it.

"And I sent your Grandmaster a very long letter expressing gratitude to the Blades for maintaining the safety of the empire. This has nothing to do with Veyond. But you _are_ going to Kvatch." He didn't mention my unhealthy daily pilgrimages to Martin's resting place, but he doesn't have to. It's well-known I make daily visits.

But this answer means I'm losing the fight already. He's got it all planned out, and he won't let me ruin his plans. He's very good at corralling me with my own words, or by my own idiosyncrasies. If I didn't respect the skill it takes, I'd hate him for it.

"Then what did I do to deserve _this_?" Never mind it's more a punishment than anything else.

"Do you think I _mean_ to reward you?" Ocato demanded dryly.

"No, it seems like you're _punishing _me." I snapped back. Martin's amulet spread a cooling sensation against my chest as my temper wavered. Between the amulet, my haunting, and my own self-control, I've got my Dremoraish tendencies fairly under control.

"What did you think? That these past months of sitting in on Council meetings was because _I_ couldn't handle the bureaucrats? I might not have your flair for inviting a fistfight to break up an argument, but I assure you, I haven't served as High Chancellor all these years because of my looks." Ocato scoffed. "Far from it. I don't seek to reward or to punish you. In fact, I would be _happy_ to give you what you seek and let you go your own way. However, I know you hold the Empire's interests more dear than your own, in his memory. And it is for _that_ reason I need your voice on the Council, in an official capacity! You're hard to argue with, you're pragmatic, dedicated. You've seen what some of the toad and leeches have planned, and you'll call them on it."

"Some people call it fanaticism." I answered mildly.

"_You've_ seen fanatics. You know it isn't it." Ocato reposed curtly. "I brought you unofficially in on the Council to get your feet wet, to get you used to dealing with the bureaucracy in a way that won't turn the Empire on it's head." My turn to snort. "I think you're as acclimated to it as I can hope for. You will report to Kvatch for your instatement as Countess within five days. I have already selected a core staff for you. They will help you run your city reliably – particularly should need arise for the Imperial Champion, or should anything come up while you're here on the Council." Ocato finished.

Which means Countess is the only open seat he could find for me, because it's clear he wants me to moderate here, not rule the city as I would be expected to. This is an awful stretch, Ocato. "Then may I suggest you have my successor lined up? Whether I die of natural causes, or go down fighting the good fight…this is the shortest dynasty you'll ever see." It was the only thing I could say. I wanted to make it a ripping insult, but I'm not that eloquent.

Ocato grit his teeth, evidently not ready to argue with me on this point. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

Good enough. I'll wait for round two.

--A--

I went to the Temple as dusk fell. I don't care what time of night I'm out and about. Even if someone were to sneak up on me, I have my ring to summon Frostreaver and my armor, and I still carry Mehrunes' Razor in my boot. I can't help but think my little haunting would let me know if something were lurking.

Despite the renovations and additional construction, the Temple remains open. Many people come by to leave small tokens at the base of the dragon statue. I'm no different. It's in the twilight I sometimes catch odd shadows moving in the corners of my vision. Perhaps it's just my haunting, or just my tired mind making things up.

"Hello," I breathed to the lifeless stone. The familiar wave of fresh pain and loss welled up like blood from a wound. Ocato optimistically thinks I'll heal and move on.

I don't. I honestly don't. Three months, and I still feel the pain as fresh as the day it struck, even if I cry less, maintain my composure better. It's an open wound, slowly killing me. Bleeding me to death. I suspect after awhile some dangerous mission only the Champion can undertake will come up…and I'll find the open arms of death waiting for me.

It makes me feel cold, but it doesn't scare me.

My haunting brushed my neck, the faintest hint of roses on the air, a bare flicker of shadow, indistinct, slightly darker than the air about me. "I'd like a private moment, if you don't mind." I murmured, so as not to seem as though I'm talking to myself. It's one thing to address the statue. It's another to have people thinking you're talking to yourself.

Stretching carefully, I could just barely touch dragon's stone ankle. Biting my lip I withdrew my hand. "I didn't tell you…when you asked me what I wanted out of all this." Picking up the monologue from yesterday. "It was you…the one thing I was so sure I couldn't have in the long run…" I swallowed. "They're sending me to Kvatch. Ocato wants me to officially join the wonderful world of politics…so I may not be able to visit as often as I'd like…just remember…remember that I miss you…and I'd give a lot to have you back. Anything. Even if it's just to tell me I need to get serious…" I bit my lip again, closing my eyes. "Well…I've got to go, get ready to go. Or Ocato might have a stroke, and then we'll _really _be in trouble."

I sighed and turned to leave. I didn't cry, didn't tear up, but I've been crying, bleeding inside ever since I realized, in the rush of exhilaration that died so suddenly…that he wasn't coming back. And the universe isn't known for giving second chances.

Martin once told me he was having trouble understanding the will of the gods…now it's my turn, but my reasons are purely selfish. Forget the Dragonfires and the line of succession, and all that for a minute: what about us, the people? We suffered and bled and _stopped _Mehrunes Dagon…and now one of us is dead, and the other…well, I'm not dying some would argue, but it feels that way. I suspect I'll be trapped in a state of suffering for the rest of my life. If I live that long.

My haunting whispered breezily, joining me at the door.

"I'm going to need you, when we get to Kvatch." I mumbled.

Not only am I heartbroken…I'm crazy to boot.

--A--

I arrived in Kvatch in the middle of a rainstorm. The amount of work completed on the ruined city is staggering, and laced with bad memories. The camp where Dagmar kept an eye on Martin is gone, but clues to its existence still remain. Homes begin to fill, but the guildhalls are still empty, many still damaged. The Chapel of Akatosh – my heart clenched painfully tight – needs about as much work as the Temple of the One.

How are we supposed to pay for all this? I mean, I do know people in the artifact recovery business – people who contract them, and buyers to take the lesser stuff off one's hands (or out of one's pack, as it actually is)…but I'm not sure that's going to help much, here.

Even the Count's castle - I don't want to call it mine - shows the ravages of recent months, only beginning to be repaired. Still, it's drier than some places I've slept. More secure, too.

Ghosts of battle danced beneath the rain, in and out of my memories. Sounds of the old battle echoed in my head. Can it really be only a few months since I was here last, battling my way towards this very castle, down these very halls? It seems like another life…

"Good evening."

I jumped, instinctively reached to call Frostreaver, but my mind worked a little faster than my magicka, or my body. Priest's habit – don't kill him. Aborting the fling of my arm I scowled at the priest – he looks about as old as Jauffre, though with a much rounder, kinder face (less monster eyebrows), a rosy complexion, and very short downy-looking white hair. He's also not much taller than I am – very short for a man, even one so aged.

"I did not mean to startle you." He added mildly.

"That's all right." I should have paid better attention to my surroundings. "Who…"

He smiled, the skin around his mouth and brown eyes crinkling. "I am Brother Tevyn, of the Order of Akatosh."

Hmm. I expected a priest of Talos – especially given the long correlation between the Blades and that priesthood.

Brother Tevyn's smile became slightly lopsided – something I didn't expect to see. Lopsided smiles don't usually occur on the faces of the clergy. "The High Chancellor felt you might resent such…oversight." He declared, rather as though he agreed.

I don't know. A fellow Blade might be able to put up with my crap a little better – seeing as how they probably gave the same arguments in youth. Still, he looks like a nice enough person. Very non-threatening. "That's very thoughtful of him." I answered diplomatically.

"It is indeed. The evening meal was prepared a little late, so as to still be warm when you arrived…" Brother Tevyn motioned me to proceed him.

"I'd much prefer to find out what needs doing around here." I'm not playing this stupid game…

Brother Tevyn inclined his head. "You'll pardon me – may I call you by your first name?"

The question was so out of the blue I nearly choked on my answer – an amazing feat considering I didn't really have one. "Um…sure?"

"You'll pardon me, Ailirah, but you're not Countess just yet, the journey's a long one, and you look like something my cat dragged in out of the mud." I know that tone. It's the 'don't say it again or I'll wash your mouth out with soap' tone. I didn't know the tone had other contexts.

Well, travel's a dirty business. Now I know why Tevyn, and not a Talonic priest.

"It's also best if you establish basic habits now, while no one is looking. I assure you, there's no need for you to begin posturing for the nobility just yet." Tevyn concluded rationally.

Damn, he's good. "Oh…all right." What else can I say? I'm either going to depend heavily on this guy, or hate his miserable, consecrated guts!

--A--

Brother Tevyn was true to his word. Dinner was not the disaster, or exhausting affair I expected. He just kept rapping my knuckles when I reached for the wrong utensil, but very gently. It's irritating, but it'll be worse if I don't learn. Fortunately, it's pretty simple – start at the outside and work in. I wonder if Ocato's got any pressure on him to keep me from making a fool of myself. Well, I'll learn what I need to know, I despise looking stupid.

Particularly if I ever have to deal with that twit, Countess Caro. Oh, and she's the type to follow polite procedure no matter how much she hates someone…that's not going to be a pleasant dinner. She's got a sharp tongue, by all accounts.

The late Count Goldwine's chambers still are in bad shape (not to mention I would feel very uncomfortable sleeping there). Tevyn assumed, quite correctly, I would prefer somewhere smaller, quieter, more easily defended. He didn't say it, but it shows. I suspect not much gets past this man. I think I do like him – he's not part of the 'pain is the best teacher' school, or the 'learn by doing it wrong a couple times' school.

Subtle guidance. And he hasn't, so far, insulted my intelligence.

According to Tevyn, Ocato wanted me installed officially within five weeks of the date he gave me, back in the Imperial City. Tevyn would like to take those five weeks, but thinks it inadvisable to wait – so I have two, to learn the basics of good behavior and try and eliminate the word 'shit' from my vocabulary.

_Shit_.

--A--

Part of the two-week preparations included dress fittings. Now, I don't mind looking pretty from time to time, I don't. It's fun when people realize yes, you can pull off the 'real girl' look fairly well. It's not _practical_, when one expects an ambush – and I apparently expect ambushes. Blame the Mythic Dawn – I'm surprised they've not come after me yet. One last ditch attempt to purge the world of my person.

I even tried to argue the funds spent on my wardrobe could be better used in repairs to the city.

To which Brother Tevyn argued I was likely to want a minimalistic wardrobe _anyway_, which wouldn't begin to assist budgets anywhere. Damn – he's good.

Which brings me to now, feeling my haunting rifle the air about my shoulders, as I stand on a stool frowning at a mirror. I didn't realize up until now, I don't wear particularly colorful clothes anymore. I used to prefer them…now it all looks gray and black.

I effectively stopped the passage from Martin's last letter from swimming before my eyes. He gives me too much credit.

"I thought so!" Madam Gray, a highly fashionable dressmaker, announced. She's been working on it for what feels like hours. "You redheads," she clicked her tongue, "so hard to choose colors for, unless you're here in person. But the ivory suits you well, don't you think so?" Madame Gray smiled benignly up at me, smoothing the unhemmed skirts the way one might pet a cat.

Looking in the mirror, this time to take in my appearance, I almost didn't recognize the woman looking back at me. Harsher, more angular planes to the face, though no change in stature, a sort of weathered smoothness, like driftwood. All clad in clouds of stiff ivory satin. "It looks…very grand," I managed. It does, and it's quite pretty. It suits me about as well as her sapphire blue gown suits her – which is very well indeed. Still – I'd find myself dead in short order if something were to happen. I'd trip on the skirts and fall on my own sword. Quite a feat, but I could manage it.

My inner vanity, however, applauds Madam Gray's eye for color, and for the shape of the dress.

Madame Gray sighed, but not as though vexed with me.

"It is beautiful." I added, looking at her reflection. "I just…"

"Don't think it looks right on you?" Madame Gray offered gently. "You'd prefer something black then."

I didn't answer, pursing my lips. Well…yes, that too. Maybe that's why I changed to drab colors after… "It's silly, isn't it?" I heard myself ask, not really wanting an answer.

"Grief's never sensible. Nor is it ever silly," Madame Gray answered. "Yes, I think this will do you just fine. Stand still, now while I pin this up."

I've been standing still! Very _patiently_, and very _amiably_, I might add. I haven't sworn once. Nor have I fidgeted to the point the demand to 'stand still' was issued. Fingering the smooth, if somewhat tight bodice, I wondered vaguely, very vaguely, what Martin might have thought of seeing me in this dress. A very incongruous picture, I'm sure. I never really worried how I looked –I was always more worried with what I needed to do, or was doing, or whether he was slacking off on his swordsmanship practices.

"I lost my man too, you know." Madame Gray announced from behind me. When I turned to crane my neck she clicked her tongue till I returned to my statue-like waiting. "But I had many good years. You'll hate to hear it, sweet, but he'd want you to be happy."

I _hate_ it when people say that.

"Most people mean 'find someone else' when they say that." I answered softly, not hiding the venom-coated steel in my tone. How can I be happy, when the one person who _made _me happy is gone? When all I can feel is the gaping void where my heart should be, still bleeding around the edges?

"Tch." she tugged my dress. "Did I say find yourself a replacement? No, I said 'he'd want you happy'. And from what it sounds like to _me_," she continued to lecture, "it makes you happier to honor his memory than anything else." I nodded once. It's all I can do – though I wouldn't use the word happy. The context of her usage of the word wasn't lost to me, either. "Well, you'll honor his memory far better if you find small ways to keep it fresh – not put them in a box somewhere, or let them get clammy from tears and clasped hands."

I looked in the mirror again. My face has gone all red and blotchy, but the tears didn't come. Madam Gray has a point, though I suspect this has less to do with my feelings and more to do with my acceptance of certain necessities. Like this ivory dress, and whether it looks good – but I suppose I don't blame her. "I like the ivory," I managed around the lump in my throat, surprising Madame Gray, whose head appeared from behind my skirts. "It doesn't clash with my hair. Or my eyes." It's a warm color, not quite white, but oddly soft. Not one I ever expected to wear myself – usually I go with shades of green because I _know _they won't clash with my hair.

"No. It's a lovely color on you," Madame Gray responded encouragingly. "Just you find yourself a lovely strand of pearls."

Perhaps. As long as I don't have goons or idiots harassing me…

A weak smile flickered then died.

_Maybe I miss being harassed by you_.

My ghost brushed my arm, careful not to disturb Madame Gray, reassuring in its own way. It's not _him_. But…I appreciate the company. I'm _really _going to need it.

--A--


	76. Chapter 76

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy-Six

--A--

The news is _not_ welcome.

I _don't_ mean the news that Countess Caro decided to come to dinner – I expected as much, sooner or later. Countess Millona stopped by already, since Anvil is closer to Kvatch than some cities. The other city leaders have sent polite notes. Countess Narina indicating she would like to see me in my official capacity – her idea of a mild joke, I'm sure – when it's convenient for me. She's not a bad person, just a little…stiffly formal.

No, the unwelcome news reached me via Countess Millona, possibly before it reached the Imperial City – an implicit request for the Imperial Champion to get her sword out again, and get back do doing what she does best. Sounds like a welcome break from the monotony of my daily life – and the looming shadow of Countess Caro's descent on Kvatch. Can't the woman find something better to do than annoy me?

Unfortunately, the emergency brewing sounds like a _real _emergency to me: Anvil's Chapel of Dibella was attacked. Two days later a man known only as 'the Prophet' showed up, predicting the end of the world. Ugh. And now, of all times. Just when we don't need the instability.

Well, people are still jumpy from the last end of the world scenario, with Mehrunes Dagon. I expect Chancellor Ocato will send me in that direction before long – I'm waiting for the message. He's smart enough not to make me run back and forth between cities just to hear this in person, thereby wasting time. And if I know him, he knows I'm only waiting for permission to leave Brother Tevyn in charge and go see this for myself.

Apparently the murders were…pretty grisly. No one heard anything. No one saw anything. Nothing. Just dead Dibellites all over the place.

And then the Prophet showed up. No one's sure if he's crazy, or the real thing, but he's winning followers left right and center. Hmph. If someone needs an ass-kicking, I'll be pleased to oblige.

Now, about that damned dinner party…how come she just invited herself over? At least Millona had the politeness to simply 'drop by en route to somewhere else' – but I like Millona. She's got a fairly kind disposition, really.

Don't tell anyone, as it's not widely known, but I'm not the only Countess who walks around with a knife in fairly easy reach. Apparently someone tried to assassinate Millona some years ago, after her husband disappeared, and found out about the glass dagger – and the Countess' skill with it - the hard way.

At least I have something to look forward to. I don't mind leaving Tevyn in charge while I'm away – he's every bit as capable as any of the stewards currently serving Counts or Countesses (and in a couple of cases, far more qualified). Since I can't do anything about it until I get word from Ocato – he'll have heart failure if I simply up and disappear on him – I suppose I'll have to go through with this stupid dinner party.

--A--

Glowering at Alessia Caro, I set my napkin on the daintily on the table. I'm getting _really_ sick of these veiled insults. Too many more and you'll wear _dinner_ on that dress. Second course and I'm ready to ruin both our evenings. "I've made my apologies for that regrettable incident," I said quietly, feeling my pulse speed up, as if preparing for a fight. Martin's amulet burned cold against my bare collar bones, the only jewelry I wore at the moment. "And if you'll recall, Countess, I got caught in the backlash of that spell too." I didn't blush, but cringed inwardly at the memory. How embarrassing – and the lectures! I thought my ears would callus over.

And Sanguine was amused. Bastard.

Alessia narrowed her eyes. She's only here for political reasons – namely that everyone with the possible exception of a couple of the Countesses and Count Hassildor wants to know if they can seed their points of view in the fertile mind of my non-politic oriented self. It is, Millona says, the usual, and that Countess Caro is lovely and cultivated (as people like to say) but underneath it is a spoiled brat, who tries to use her tantrums to get Council members to concede points.

Glancing discreetly over at Brother Tevyn, he shook his head very discreetly, meaning I should not carry on. I'm so glad he's here – he keeps kicking me in the ankle when it looks like I might reply more sharply (or bluntly) than is advisable. So far it's worked, and so far, Alessia hasn't thrown a fit. If she does, I'll do her one better: I'll just throw her out of the palace and let her take up a suite at the inn.

Looking at my plate I found I no longer feel hungry, despite the fact I've only picked at supper so far. I keep waiting to hear from Ocato – everything is ready. I can leave the moment, the instant I get notification. Though, if notification comes much later than this early supper's end, I'll have to wait until tomorrow anyway.

"Well, I suppose it wasn't nearly so mortifying for…" Alessia trailed off, venom beneath her sickly sweet tones, like some exotic poisons.

I can read between the lines without straining my brain: she means 'for a lowborn common mongrel, fit only to snap and bite at her master's enemies'. "Excuse me please," I made to push my chair back, stopping the motion when the servitor hurried forward to pull the article away for me. I'm still not used to it, though I didn't stumble, overbalance, or otherwise trip. Standing up, I caught sight of Alessia's triumphant smirk.

I gave a slight sniffle, as if warding off a sneeze. Take this your pin-headed bitch…I gave a passably convincing sneeze. "I'm sorry, I'm allergic to bullshit, and it's getting pretty thick in here."

Tevyn closed his eyes with a faint sigh, but Alessia looked startled, as if I'd smacked her. "Unless…"I continued, now I had her attention, "it's the smell of _Argonian_. According to you, they smell the same, don't they?" Everyone who ever lived in Leyawiin knows the rumors about the Countess' nearly psychotic prejudice against the Argonians. Most of the nobility have heard, but consider themselves too well-bred to listen to gossip.

But saying it out loud is still the equivalent of dropping a bombshell. Most of the other dinner guests looked away, pointedly not looking at anyone else. I honestly believe she's got a torture chamber under the castle. If I could prove it, I'd nail her to a wall.

"Countess." Tevyn murmured softly. Apparently I'm getting close to crossing a line.

"Good evening, Brother." I inclined my head, then strode out into the hall, and navigated towards my office, disinclined to sleep. A gentle remonstration from Tevyn is impending – and no doubt Ocato will wince when he hears about it. I've managed to keep such sentiments under my tongue where they belong, instead of aired out like laundry, but even I have limits.

She deserved it, snippy little harpy-bitch. I haven't thrown that word around so often since…wow. Ever. Alessia is _that _disagreeable.

Throwing myself down at my desk, I fingered the still cold amulet, closing my eyes as pain welled up beneath my ribs, but I didn't cry. I've run out of tears, and the reservoir for them never refilled with fresh. As my eyes slid to my letter opener, my little ghost rustled softly before, for a moment, the sensation of hands on my shoulders appeared. My ghost was conspicuously absent during dinner – I can only suppose so as not to give itself away.

I put the letter opener – which looks very friendly just now, as it does on occasion – in a drawer of my desk, at which point my ghost rustled itself off to one side. I could almost see its shapeless, formlessness eyeing me curiously. "I don't see why you're wasting your time." I sighed, slumping. "The way I feel now, I'm not going to see thirty."

Still, at least I didn't have a real Dremora temper-flare when dealing with Alessia. Either I'm getting better at this, or she's not poking the right soft spots.

"Countess?" The query came accompanied by a tap on my office door.

"Come in." Standing up I found a messenger, looking as though he'd ridden hard, carrying a white envelope with Ocato's seal standing near a stoic looking sentry. Taking it I looked at him. "Allow me to extend the hospitality of my household."

One of the household staff – whom I suspect of having followed me from the dining hall - popped up promptly, to take care of the courier, and the sentry saluted before going back to his post.

The letter from Ocato confirmed what I already knew – asking me to leave Tevyn in charge, and investigate the crisis in Anvil personally. My presence would, Ocato continued, soothe the fears of the populace. Couple that with my ability to get things done, and Ocato was happy to leave the matter to me.

Good. Just don't listen when the idiots on the Council – and there are still quite a few – bitch about my methods. Speaking of bitching, I really ought to quit. Ocato may not always agree with the way I do things, but he won't tell me 'get it done' then refuse to back me up against criticisms once I do.

He's fair like that.

--A--

With Anvil on the coast, the weather is a little more moderate than in other places. Instead of cold and cloudy, it's cold and sunny. Or it feels cold to me. The Chapel, no doubt, is still closed off to the public – Millona would see to it, once she sent word to Ocato requesting an investigation. I don't worry about anything getting interfered with. I'm more interested in this Prophet character.

I found the Prophet in a garden between the sealed, under-guard chapel, and a large, apparently empty residence, speaking to an assembled crowd. Nothing wrong with that, I suppose. "The blood of Dibella's slaughtered acolytes cries out for vengeance. Vengeance! Who will take up this holy crusade? Love and Mercy! Do you still think me mad? Who shall next fall to Umaril's bloody revenge? The Eight And One require a champion, a Divine Crusader reborn."

People began to shift very uncomfortably. I couldn't stop a vague swell of bitterness. There might have _been_ a champion, if the sacrifice of his life hadn't been deemed _necessary_. My heart beat painfully. I'd have gone with him, too, to watch his back.

I felt my temper waver, like a candle touched by breeze, then strode forward, moving through the crowd to glower at this Prophet. I'm getting to the bottom of this. _Now_. "That's enough. Go about your business – move along, move along," people gaped, then allowed themselves to be shepherded off, probably to find a more surreptitious place from which to watch.

"You are late in coming." The man known only as the Prophet declared dryly, eyeing me closely.

"Am I?" Icy chill flowed painfully in my wrists, my pulse itself suddenly cold. "What is it you want?" This whole rant at first reeks of madness…and yet….

_You're late_, he said. Wasn't I thinking that as well – too late to stop the carnage. Too late to save Martin. Too late – the story of my life.

"Haven't you been listening?" The Prophet demanded."Have you not heard the words heralding the Ancient Doom?"

"I came in during the middle." I answered with a shrug. This guy makes me nervous.

"You think me mad?" he asked, with a wry smile.

"I think we're all mad these days."Oh _decidedly_. Some more than others.

"Very well. If you will listen." I nodded – what else can I do, and still call myself an investigator? "This is only the beginning – all you see here," he motioned to the Chapel. "See it you should. Umaril has returned, as foretold by Pelinal Whitestrake in his dying breath!"

Neither name means anything to me. "Who's Umaril?"

The Prophet sighed. I suppose he gets this question often. Or maybe not, given the glare he's giving me. You're not a Dremora, that dark look isn't going to help you any. "Umaril the Unfeathered, the sorcerer-king of the Ayleids who ruled over this land for long ages before the rise of Men."

"Who, wait, _Ayleids_?" You've got to be joking. I thought I cleaned out their last king – Miscarcand, Great Welkynd Stone, nasty lich-thing? I was there, you know.

"You've heard of them. Of them he is the greatest." That's what they said about Miscarcand. "He was cast down by Pelinal Whitestrake. But Umaril's spirit survived, and now he has returned to seek vengeance upon the gods."

"Who's...Pelinal?…" You know, I begin to think I should have studied history a little further back than I did.

The Prophet made a noise of annoyance. "_Saint_ Pelinal, the Divine Crusader of legend," I'm still drawing a blank. My history's stronger on the Nordic side of the family. "Saint Alessia's companion when she overthrew the rule of the Ayleids three thousand years ago?"

"Now her I've heard of." I added.

The Prophet sighed. If he feels like he's talking to a _rock_, I feel like I'm taking to a _post_. So we're in the same boat really. "Pelinal, with the aid of the gods, fought the Ayleid sorcerer-king Umaril and slew him. But Umaril's spirit survived, and he has now returned!"

"Some bad guys never give up." My haunting brushed my neck. Knock it off – I'm thinking. It's hard work. "So his followers attacked the Chapel...or was it Umaril himself?" Just what we need – more insane cultists. I suppose I should be glad I know a thing to two about fighting them.

"Do you understand nothing?" The Prophet began.

Yeah, I've heard this bit before. "Look, I'm doing my best, but you're not exactly volunteering information!" I growled back.

"The blood speaks for itself!" The Prophet raised his voice, after I raised mine. This isn't going anywhere… "_I_ can read the ancient runes, if you cannot. '_As oiobala Umarile, Ehlnada racuvar'_, in the Ayleid tongue. '_By the eternal power of Umaril, the mortal gods shall be cast down'._ A curse upon Umaril's ancient foes - and a threat."

I don't like the sound of that. "So how do I stop him?" I asked, bad temper momentarily halted as I turned over the meaning in the ranting. Oh, this can be all bad...

"Alas. Umaril cannot be stopped. Not without the aid of the gods. Not without the Crusader's Relics. Without a champion, the gods are powerless to act." The Prophet seemed to be settling down a bit, finally. I was starting to worry he'd...I don't know. Have a fit, or something.

I sighed. This _would _happen now – if he's not simply raving. I can't take that chance. "Look, we just got this Empire jury-rigged back together. There's _no way _I'm going to let some crusty, moldy, Ayleid maggot-farm on a power trip tear it apart!" I found myself snarling aloud, the amulet burning cold against my skin.

So much pain, so many sacrifices…all the weight of which hung from the strings that once suspended my heart. I won't allow it all to become meaningless. My Dremoraish temper, so long fairly dormant wavered like flame sunder a pot, spreading out flat, spewing up around the edges.

The Prophet eyed me narrowly. "Are you a worthy knight?" He asked simply.

I meant to tell him forget knights, forget worthy, I'm doing my damned job – there's no one else - but the look he gave me stole the words from my mouth, as well as the heat from my temper. "No. I suppose not." I responded bitterly. But it's not going to stop me investigating. Just watch.

Turning towards the Chapel, intent on taking a good look around, I started to walk away.

"Wait." I stopped walking. "Let the gods be the judge of worthy, and unworthy. I cannot see into men's hearts. I see only their words and deeds."

How did I know I would not be allowed to walk away as a third-party investigator? Deep down, how did I know? "Then you know I have a penchant for showing up too late. As you said." I answered coldly.

"Perhaps." The Prophet responded. Turning around I eyed him balefully. Don't horse around with me today. I'm not in the mood.

"The gods grant insight to those they deem worthy. Why and how they act is not predictable."

No kidding. My crisis of faith right now is the same one Martin went through: where are they? What are they doing? Do they even _have_ a plan, or are they just playing it by ear? I try not to dwell on it, but I do wonder. "You said something about seeking relics." Artifact recovery. Oh joy unbounded. At one time, I would have been overjoyed at the prospect. Now, I just feel dead inside. And angry.

"Traditionally, knights who wished to quest for the Relics walk the Pilgrim's Way. Travel to the Wayshrines of the Nine Divines. Pray to each of the gods in turn, and ask their favor upon your quest. If the gods deem you worthy, you will be granted a sign. Go forth with the Nine's blessings." He raised a hand as if in benediction.

Inclining my head out of habit, I started for the Chapel.

It's not my day.

--A--


	77. Chapter 77

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy-Seven

--A--

The guard at the door of other chapel didn't try earnestly to keep me from entering – only warning me to make sure I was ready. And recommend I have a strong stomach. Even from the front step, I could smell the lingering miasma of blood and death.

"Thanks." I allowed. He means it kindly I'm sure. He was not a very young member, but his face was very pale, as though he had never seen anything like it. Come to think of it, he probably hasn't. It's sort of sad that even after five relatively calm months, the idea of death, destruction, and bloody rampages doesn't affect me as it used to. I just feel..empty. Like I'm looking at so much meat.

Or so I feel _now_ – I may rediscover my humanity once I step through that door.

The guard unlocked the door to the darkened chapel, allowing me to slip in, closing the door behind me. The darkness, so soothing against my eyes, harbored the chill of an empty building. The smell of death hung like cobweb curtains, the sinister nuances of blood like flies in the webs.

Oblivion smells worse – the dust I can ignore. But something prickled uncomfortably, perhaps it's only me imagining monsters into the shadows. Still, I'd rather be perfectly sure, than to discover too late I was wrong. Raising a hand my magelight blossomed, shedding ivory-golden warmth.

I take back the 'so much meat' observation. The bodies of the priestess, priestess, and the healer were already gone, removed for proper burial, and rites to make sure they wouldn't rise again. This means no human faces contorted in fear, no glassy-eyed stares...

The Mages Guild had better keep an eye on things. As it stands, Anvil's a great place for a necromancer to raise an army. First the _Serpent's Wake_, then the Lighthouse Slaughters, now this. It's getting to be a pretty dangerous place to live.

Though arguably, anywhere's dangerous these days.

Well, bodies or not, they were slaughtered mercilessly enough. I don't need the corpses to see where they were. Two were left where they finally fell – both put up real struggles, the blood smeared about on the floor with many handprints – some of which probably belong to the killer or killers – far too large for be a woman's.

Unless we're talking an orc, but the fingers aren't shaped right. I wonder…could the Dark Brotherhood have done this? Contracted a hit to throw us off the scent? The thought of Dagmar, of my once-ally as a member of the Dark Brotherhood made my temper waver.

No, if this is a cult-thing centered around Ayleids, they probably wouldn't want a Sithian deathcult involved. No matter how effective it would prove, in putting people like me off the scent – too many outsiders' eyes. And what are these relics the Prophet was babbling on about? Was he really babbling – or have I just found myself caught in someone else's machinations? _Again_.

I cut this line of thought. It won't get me anywhere, and I'm not tangled in anything. Yet.

The messy murders made sense as I progressed towards the altar –the smell of blood, death and magicka thicker here, as well as the reason I could still smell the former two. The magicka itself felt strange, wholly unlike the magicka of man and mer, but not much like that the Dremora use...but similar. It's still got that wild bite to it.

Around the base of the latter were words – runes I can't read. I suppose I don't need to read them, I know what they say. The Prophet told me: _The blood speaks for itself! I can read the ancient runes, if you cannot. '_As oiobala Umarile, Ehlnada racuvar'_, in the Ayleid tongue. '_By the eternal power of Umaril, the mortal gods shall be cast down'_. A curse upon Umaril's ancient foes - and a threat. _The blood in which they were written was being kept fresh – a low level spell,and probably the reason I'm aware of Daedric magicka.

So why are the Daedra involved? Unless they're just summoned flunkies. Yes, that's probably it – I'm trying to make too much out of this...or am I? I hate these 'am I going crazy?' moments.

A waft of something rosy mingled with the blood, death and magicka, making me truly nauseous. "Stop that, you're making it worse…a lot worse…" I groaned, though I didn't lean on the altar, or step on the runes it took effort.

Blood and roses...sounds like a musical troupe. Or the recipe for one very sick half-Nord, and I don't think retching my guts up all over the crime scene is going to reassure anyone of the situation, or my competence. Kneeling with labored breath and slowly subsiding nausea – my haunting abandoned its attempt to 'help' in a flutter which tugged visibly at my clothes.

"Don't think I don't appreciate it." I announced softly, but nevertheless out loud.

So I'm partly crazy. Like I told the Prophet: we're _all _getting that way. It's not hurting anyone yet – and I suspect my ghost of supreme cowardice, or at the very least, a disposition for running away from violence. Otherwise, it'd present a visible form with which to scare off people I don't want to deal with.

Like Alessia Caro.

Nausea quelled, I continued my thorough look around. Atop the altar, blood pooled thick, not even forming a leathery coating as it dried – again, kept fresh by magicka. I could see the marks on the altar itself – someone lay here at one point, spread-eagled, still fully dressed. Wrinkles from the robes worn still show, outside the actual blood pool.

All this blood…and no one heard anything? But it's nor the work of a Dremora - though I have no doubt this might seem pretty close to home to one. Dead humans, bloody fountains, the only thing missing are the fires and brimstone.

Kneeling I touched the runes, surprised to find that even as I drew back, expecitng to leave fingerprints, none showed. The runes themselves pulsed with powerful magicka, evoking a sense of dying, rotting, corrupt grandeur, but they were also spelled in such a way that I, unskilled as I am, could neither remove nor deface them. My fingerprints showed for moment before they filled in, vanishing as though they never were.

The more I think about this the more I'm inclined to believe this _wasn't_ something contracted out, or even carried out by overzealous followers. This was carefully done. So much so I'd call it cult work and never mind who the cult belongs to. All it proves is that this is one of the truly dangerous ones: the kind where the followers don't just turn in their brains with the door warden.

I need to see Tar-Meena. If she doesn't know more about this Umaril character – and Pelinal – she'll know who does. Preferably someone who can articulate without ranting.

--A--

Countess Millona wouldn't hear of me staying at the inn. "Don't be silly," she shook her head when her porter brought my travel bag (which she eyed askance – Millona would never travel so light) and me to her solar. "I'm so glad you came. Can you…do you know anything about all this?" Her brows furrowed. Millona doesn't bite her lip like most people when she gets nervous. She claws at whatever is near at hand, either the arm of a chair, in this case the knee of her skirt, or her elbow and side if she's got her arms crossed before her.

"A little. Can you leave the Prophet where he is? I think he's half-mad, but I suspect I'll need to talk to him again before long." I grunted, throwing myself into a chair across from Millona. I don't want to go tromping around the city looking for him, in other words, should I need to talk to him.

"Tea?" Millona offered graciously.

"Please." The sound of tea filling a proper mug - Millona can't stand flimsy tea services either – was like balm to my ears.

"So, what's this about?" A crease appeared between her eyebrows.

"I don't know, yet. I need to talk to a friend at the Arcane University. But I want the Prophet where I can easily find him." I added. I had not appreciated how much death, blood, and magicka was in the chapel, until I got out of the building and back into the fresh air. I can still smell all three, as if they somehow insinuated themselves into my clothes and my hair, but no one else seems to notice in the slightest. Another thing all in my head.

"I'll make sure the city watch doesn't bother him. I was going to have him relocated but…" Millona inclined her head. "Can you tell me what you do know?"

"I'll tell you what I've been _told_," I answered grimly, and explained in brief what the Prophet told me.

"Hmm. And this couldn't just be a hoax?" The hopeful note in her voice indicated she did not think so.

"It might," I agreed. "But I'm not willing to take that chance. Martin didn't save this empire, just so I could let it fall apart." The tone was even, the words strong,and yet they did not remain 'just words', unable to harm me. They brought out the dull ache, but not the same wrist-slashing sensation as using the phrase 'died to save the Empire' did.

"No, of course not." Millona nodded. She lost her husband – she knows what grief is. I don't know if anyone else shares this view, but it may be for his memory she worked so hard, keeping Anvil one of _the _most well-appointed cities. It's not as wealthy as Skingrad, but it's bigger, nicer, and one of the busiest ports Cyrodiil has. Then, three months ago, the fetcher came back, proving what I never suspected: Millona married an idiot. She still does all the work, keeps the city afloat, and he...I don't know what he's doing, but I have an extremely poor opinion of him.

Well, as long as she's happy. I have to admit, part of me is very jealous. Corvus, her husband, disappeared, then he came back. I have no luck, none at all.

"I know I shall sleep better, knowing you're looking into this. You've a skill for solving problems. Biscuit?" Millona's voice shattered the pointless exercise of trying to figure out what I could have done differently that might have recast the lots.

"No thank you." The words fell neatly from my mouth, an empty pleasantry.

"You're beginning to look downright wraith-like, Ailirah. Biscuit?" Millona pressed a little more firmly.

With a resigned sigh I shrugged. "Thank you."

"Not at all."

--A--

"Well, you do like to dredge up obscure histories, don't you?" Tar-Meena sighed, setting down a stack of books.

As Imperial Champion, I've got some license to go where I normally wouldn't be allowed. Part of it is due to the fact the Arcane University is still rebuilding – or rather, they're doing the same thing as the Temple of the One: taking advantage of the opportunity to rebuild, improve, and otherwise advance their own agendas.

Mages like their comforts. They're notorious for it. I can't figure out of this is a mages' summer retreat or a place of study.

Which isn't to say the Arcane University didn't need the repairs. Apparently, someone didn't bind the security Dremora properly, so when Mehrunes Dagon crossed into our world, the bindings all snapped. Lots of dead mages, lots of damaged property. The study Tar-Meena and I used to use, back during the hunt for the Mythic Dawn was one such casualty, so now we sat at a table in the back of the library.

"So there's a record of it?" I scowled.

"Oh yes – several volumes worth." You're joking...she's not. "'The Song of Pelinal' – though of course, he was eclipsed by Saint Alessia. I would love to talk to this Prophet myself, but I'm so busy here. The weather's bad for the books, you know." Tar-Meena shook her head ruefully at this lost chance.

"I'd imagine. I would go, then." I know something of regret. Better to suffer a minor inconvenience than to truly regret not doing something. It's one of the differences between living and merely existing. "He half-rambles, likes to hear himself rant…" Shaking my head I looked at the pile of books. How many volumes of this 'song' are there? Seven. Tar-Meena told me seven...good grief.

"Well, these," Tar-Meena waved, "are the complete telling. I can give you the short of it, if you'd like."

"Please." Oh please. I don't have time to read all this!

Tar-Meena nodded, settling in her chair. "Pelinal's origins are fairly inconclusive, so I'll skip to the part I think will interest you most – you won't see that until the third volume, and not all the volumes seem relevant to whatever you're after."

Holy crap – I've got to wade through two volumes just to get this _lineage_ out of the way? That's ridiculous! Thank goodness Tar-Meena knows what the books say, and can give me the compacted version. "All right. Thank you."

"Pelinal might also be a forgotten legend because many scholars agree he wasn't, well, didn't have his head screwed on right. Yes, it's true, he was the sword that harried the Ayleids and their sorcerer-kings. But he also had a disposition towards madness – the heedless slaughter of men and mer. Even to his enemies he behaved very…well, brutally.

"After making atonements for his first Madness, Pelinal stormed the White-Gold Tower itself, then the capital of the Ayleid nation, just as it's the capital of our Empire. Now, it's said the Ayleids struck a pact with Meridia…"

"_Meridia_? Another Daedric Prince? _Dammit!_" I rose from my seat so fast I knocked over my chair, but caught it reflexively. That expalins the Daedric magicka at the chapel. The stuff that decidedly did not belong to a Dremora.

My haunting blew on my neck. Knock it off, I'm on the advent of a new, publicly acknowledged crisis! "Another one?" Ugh – this explains _everything_! It's always Daedra! "So do I have to fight Meridia now?" Meridia is not on my list of Daedra I'd like to make myself hostile too – she despises the undead, and I'm not exactly fond of them myself.

"Well, it's unclear if the pact was made with Meridia herself, or with her Aurorans - either way, it would need her blessings." Tar-Meena mused.

"Huh?" I shook my head. You're dealing with a novice, here.

"The human-like servants of one of the Princes, the Dremora, the Mazken, the Aureals, or in this case the Aurorans, usually can't operate too far out of line with what their Prince dictates. Oh, you wind up with a rogue every now and then, or ones who, through association with Nirn, its people, or by bindings, et cetera, have more license than usual, but generally speaking if you see them, they're either bound, or ordered to be where you are by the Daedra Lord in question." Tar-Meena said this quickly, so as not to lose her audience.

" Aurorans, huh?" Biting my lip, I sighed. Here we go again. "Okay, let's have the rest of it." I threw myself back into my chair, covering my face with my hands. More Daedra. Great. My haunting tickled my neck, necessitating me to rub the sensation away.

Knock it off, I'm okay. For now.

"The Ayleids made a pact with Meridia or her Aurorans," Tar-Meena repeated, "and chose a champion, Umaril the Unfeathered, and for the first time, an Ayleid called Pelinal out, on the field of battle."

"Bet he loved that." I grunted. I think Auregos makes a better hero – he didn't go on bloody rampages.  
"Oh yes – he was counseled not to go."

"But he went anyway." I answered. Figures…though of all I've heard so far, this might be the one thing I can see his point of view on. Depends on whose asking, whether I walk away from a fight or not.

"Well, Umaril had better tactics than Pelinal. He sent wave after wave of Ayleids to fight and die – but in the end they succeeded in wounding Pelinal. Then Umaril, and the other sorcerer-kings came out." Smart mer. A little heartless sacrificing his men, but that's neither here nor there. "Umaril came out, mocking the injured Pelinal, making boasts of his great lineage. Pelinal wasn't finished, and they fought. The texts indicate Umaril was 'laid low'. Pelinal apparently took advantage of his enemy's weakness and hacked away Umaril's wings."

"Umaril had _wings_?" Since when did elves fly?

"According to the narrative, now shh." Tar-Meena responded, though good-naturedly. "As he so defaced his enemy, Pelinal rained down insults on Umaril, but he also succeeded in insulting other sorcerer-kings to the point they fell upon Pelinal, dismembering him into eight pieces while he was still alive."

Gruesome.

"In the end, Morihaus, the Divine Bull came to the Tower after his friend, and found only Pelinal's head, which spoke of regrets."

I didn't question the talking, severed head. Morihaus I've heard of. "So, what? What happened?"

"That's it. You know the history of Saint Alessia from there." Tar-Meena shrugged.

I did nto show my disappointment at this abrupt ending. "Where was the rest of his body?"

"No idea. It's implied the Ayleids secreted them away, spreading him out across Cyrodiil…"

"…the Crusader's Relics." I finished.

Tar-Meena blinked at me slowly. "I thought you didn't know anything about all this?"

"The Prophet said Umaril's coming back. And that he can't be defeated without the Relics and a Champion. So I'm looking for both."I answered grimly.

"I don't know, Lirah – couldn't you be the Champion in question? I mean, you're not exactly unqualified." Tar-Meena suggested.

I took a moment to make sure I would not snap at her, when I opened my mouth to speak. "I don't meet champion criteria."I answered so firmly, Tar-Meena simply sighed, but abandoned the argument. I don't think I'm a very good Imperial Champion, or a very good Countess. I'm certainly not a crusader, or anything similar.

"Well, if you're looking for relics, maybe you'll find a Champion en route. You found an Emperor before." She meant this kindly, I'm sure, but it took a lot of effort not to say something rude. "I suggest you go back, and talk to this Prophet again – have him be a little plainer."

"Sounds like a plan," I didn't move to get up, or get going. I'm not so sure the Prophet _can_ speak plainly.

Tar-Meena settled back in her chair as well, her hands folded before her.

Truthfully, I enjoy the quiet.

"Ocato will want to hear about this, won't he?" Tar-Meena asked some time later.

"Yes, he will. I'm not ready to tell him I'm still…still lost."

"Well, why don't you go pay your respects, and I'll make shorthand notes for you about what these say?" Tar-Meena offered, waving a clawed hand at the pile of volumes.

I smiled, getting to my feet. Tar-Meena is so accommodating because – earlier on – I contributed to a book on the Mythic Dawn, Dagon and the Deadlands – firsthand accountings. Apparently the book is selling well.

--A--

Author's Notes, Appended:

For those who would argue with Tar-Meena's retelling, hang tight. The Umaril-Pelinal story is told several times, with different spins on each.


	78. Chapter 78

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy-Eight

--A--

You know how stories improve, or are improved by retelling? The version I got from the Prophet puts Pelinal in a better light than the copy Tar-Meena had – but it also answered my questions of 'then what' and 'what happened to the body'? Thankfully, the Prophet managed to speak with more lucidity.

According to the Prophet, there are eight relics I'm looking for: the weapons and armor of Pelinal Whitestrake, supposedly granted to him by the Eight Divines. I don't doubt they're powerful artifacts, and I suppose deep down I don't doubt they may even be holy relics. It just feels like Nirn's become a Daedra's playground and no one but us puny mortals are trying to do anything to stop it.

I don't have the stomach to tell Brother Tevyn about this personal crisis. Bless me for stubbornness, right? And he'd worry. 'Priests,' he once said, 'are professional worriers. It comes with the good work.' I don't know whether he said it to try and let me know it was pointless for us _both_ to worry about the same matter, or if he was trying to cheer me up.

Anyway, Pelinal and Umaril went at it, at the White Gold Tower like the books said. However, according to the Prophet, Umaril, unlike Pelinal (talking head doesn't equate _dead_ to my way of thinking, though he's probably finished dying by _now_), was not truly slain, but only cast beyond the bounds of Nirn. Where to, one might ask? Well, 'beyond the bounds of Nirn' means one of two places, and I can't see Aetherius holding Umaril for long.

Which means Oblivion – possibly with Meridia in her realm. Possibly like Mankar Camoran in Paradise. Which makes me wonder why Meridia hasn't silenced the Prophet, or anything like that. Or maybe she's showing her Daedric colors and had simply lost interest in the matter, content to let it play out.

It doesn't matter. Maybe she just meant to shake things up to see what would happen. Or maybe she got fond of humanity, in the intervening years since the Ayleids were defeated.

Come to think of it, if Daedra were decks of cards, every card would be a wild card. The game would get nowhere, and remain predictable in its unpredictability.

The Prophet set me a task – to visit nine of the wayshrines, to the (it's kind of obvious) Nine Divines. One each, and receive their blessings. I had to bite my tongue on my own bitterness again, my haunting flapping worriedly about my head. This is the last sort of pilgrimage I want to do right now, but I learned long ago that the things I want and the things I need to do (whether by personal choice or outside machinations) are rarely the same thing.

Well, I've got three in easy reach. I know all nine can be found in Colovia – when Iw as with the Guild, most of my jobs were in Colovia - and Meridia's shrine is located an easy walk from three of them. So it wasn't too much of a detour to find some bits of undead nastiness to present to her. I don't care if she talks, I just want her to listen.

Meridia's shrine is a beautiful place, very quiet, and her followers…they're a lot nicer (and more appropriately dressed) than Sanguine's lot. I noticed, as I drew nearer, my haunting showing signs of discomfort, before ceasing to fuss at all. For a moment I thought I may have lost it, or perhaps its presence is an affront to Meridia – it's not my fault! I haven't killed _anyone_ who would want to stick around and keep an eye on me…

Oh yes…you're not Jauffre, are you? No, somehow…no. I don't think so. I already decided it isn't, or wasn't human. Or a mer, so that rules out Eldamil as well – though his haunting be might be a little…creepy.

The moment the thought of losing my comforting little ghost crossed my mind – for it is comforting to have it, even if I find it annoying from time to time – my haunting brushed against my cheek reassuringly. I hope that means 'I'll wait here for you to finish so Meridia doesn't suck my undead-self out of existence'. On second thought...eew. I never really considered it a 'ghost' or any sort of undead. The undead are usually so icky.

Entering the small clearing housing the shrine, Meridia's followers jumped, then relaxed. "Countess," the one I took to be in charge – a Breton – inclined her head.

"Not today I'm afraid. Would it be convenient for me to request your lady's attention?" I asked briskly. This is so awkward.

The Daedra worshippers exchanged looks.

"I'm here on…on semi-personal business. I'm not here to hunt Daedra worshippers." Like I said, I don't have a problem with Meridia…unless she backs Umaril. Then I'm in deep shit. Which means we fight. Well, I've still got Mehrunes' Razor...maybe that would even things up.

"Certainly, you know what will please her." The Breton indicated the statue.

Stepping up I scooped the handkerchief full of bonemeal out of my satchel, then laid it at the statue's feet. Meridia said nothing, so I took the opportunity to speak, only to find I didn't know what to say. I stared at the stone, part of me wishing the Daedra would just strike me down for impertinence. "You know why I'm here." I murmured to the listening silence. "I'm sure you've kept an eye on the…the proceedings. Years and years, I've purged the undead, felled necromancers where I could. So if you mean to support Umaril…kill me now." Because I'll find a way to stop him." In…in _his _memory. For the security of that which should have been his.

And you'd better kill me quick.

I looked up, finding Meridia's carved face towering above me, expressionless, emotionless, white stone. Unlike Sanguine's statue, which flickered with shadows and seemed to have a life of its own.

What _weak_ reasoning. What the hell did I come out here in the first place? She's not listening. She doesn't have to…I don't have it in me to fight a Daedric Prince one on one. I saw what it took...what it cost to…

My eyes burned, but nothing more as I forcibly wrenched myself away from the thought. Turning to leave I shook my head, sighing heavily. "I wish you luck."The Breton said as I neared the edge of the camp.

"I don't think she'll like that." I muttered.

"I don't know. She let you walk away, didn't she? And she listened to you. Surely you were aware of that."

True. Either that or she knows I don't have a chance.

Never mind – this silent treatment is just as bad as anywhere else. I'll happily look for Wayshrines now.

My haunting rejoined me not too far away from the Shrine, tugging at my hair, brushing across my neck, almost as if fussing. "Thanks." I waved a hand through the air, but as ever, never found anything solid to touch.

--A--

Kicking my boots off, I threw myself face down on my own bed, in my own house in the Imperial City. Nine wayshrines, more than a week of near-aimless wandering (my memory of Colovia seems to have deteriorated in the past months), ghosts, and who knows how many highwaymen and brigands thinking the redhead's an easy mark has me absolutely exhausted. I didn't even stop by the Temple of the One before coming home.

Martin would understand. He knows what it's like to be run ragged. He'd tell me to take care of myself.  
I stopped this line of thought quickly. It'll only go downhill and I'm just…so…_tired_.

--A--

I had nightmares again.

Once again, my haunting – I assume it's my haunting – put a halt to them before I could wake up, shaking and sweating as if with illness, replacing the terror with the same comforting darkness one might find in putting one's head under a blanket. With the added bonus to breathe proper, cool, pretty-smelling air.

The nightmares are killer…

I hardly dropped out of my dark sanctuary into proper sleep when some fetcher started pounding on my door. _Go away_. The knocking is too persistent. Surging out of bed, in a bit of a temper, I strode over to the door and wrenched it open. "_What_?" I snarled at the unfortunate Palace Guard, who jumped a the address. Classic redhead temper.

"Ah…did I wake you up?" He asked uncertainly.

I love how people love to ask that question. "Yes. What. Do. You. Want?"

"Chan-Chancellor Ocato wanted an update on your, your progress."

I narrowed my eyes, watching the lad shake, feeling Martin's amulet burning blissfully cool against my skin. "Sorry. Let me get my boots – I'll be along shortly." The lad nodded, then hurried off. I shouldn't have spoken so sharply – it's not his fault Ocato worries like a wet hen.

I'll just inform Ocato that I resent being woken up like that.

--A--

Ocato waited for me in the empty Council Chamber. "You know, I'd just got to sleep when your lad turned up," I announced grimly, throwing myself in an unoccupied chair and putting my crossed ankles in the next one. Not only is my sleep interrupted, I'm still mulling over the events of my trip along the Pilgrim's Way – or so the Prophet called it. Most of it was pretty unimpressive. It's the little that wasn't staying in the forepart of my mind.

"Well, if _someone _had dropped in to let Tevyn know she was all right, while she was roaming the countryside, or to leave word as to what she was _doing_, I might have given you more time to rest," Ocato responded evenly. A mer as old as he is knows how to deal with people like me – his words when I pushed a little to hard about something or other. I honestly do respect him, even though we disagree on so many counts.

"I couldn't have been fighting for my life? Restoring balance? Doing the hero thing?" I asked, though some of the sharpness went out of my tone, replaced by idle sarcasm.

"Don't get smart with me, Ailirah. I'm not at all sympathetic this afternoon." Ocato warned, looking a little harassed himself.

Shaking my head I took my feet off the chair. I suppose he's not a Blade, or even Fighters Guild, so he wouldn't know that it's not always feasible to make detours like checking in before the job's done. The thought simply doesn't occur to me; I don't do it to ruin his day...much like he probably didn't mean to ruin my day by sending that kid to wake me up. Because Ocato couldn't have known I was sleeping.

That's neither here nor there. Who wants to hear 'hey, I'm halfway finished'? Not me. "Look at me – do I look like I can afford to miss my beauty sleep?"

Ocato didn't smile, but took the joke for what it was – my conceding the argument in favor of business. "What have you found out? Millona didn't know anything coherent; Tevyn says you vanished after leaving Anvil. That was over a week ago. People worried." Ocato's tone held naught but censure.

Looking at the mer, I found his expression held some worry, fine lines appearing between brows and around his eyes. Lines I had not noticed when I first met him. "Sorry." I realize, suddenly, he looks as though he's been called away from doing something other than Chancellor duties. Possibly gardening, if the dirt is any indication. I suppose everyone needs a hobby.

"You grow roses?" I asked with interest. It's getting on in the winter months, but I suppose a personage like Ocato could find a way to garden indoors or something. He's not exactly a mundane.

"Irises," Ocato corrected, rubbing his forehead.

"Interesting. All right," I slouched, closing my eyes, and explained what I'd discovered at the chapel, from the Prophet, from Tar Meena, from my second visit to the Prophet, skipped my visit to Meridia's shrine, and detailed the very long process of wandering the wilds of Colovia in search of out of the way wayshrines. I was nearly in Hammerfell before I found the last one.

I should have crossed over. People in this province – for the most part – don't know a _thing_ about properly done prawns. "…so I got to the last one, and I don't know. Something came over me." That's an understatement. Frowning, I settled back in my chair, mulling over the events.

--A--

The wayshrine of Stendarr was the last one – thank goodness.

Touching the shine, bowing my head I waited for the usual feeling of renewal. I may have some issues with whatever plans may or may not be running, but apparently it's not enough to deny me blessings at wayshrines. I don't know how to interpret that, really.

I didn't feel simply rejuvenated. For a moment I felt one hundred percent, perfectly _human_, in a way I haven't felt in ages. As if every trace, every scar of Oblivion was suddenly torn free, fresh Ailirah-soul regrown where the damaged part no longer tainted the whole. A feeling of purity I can't even describe properly – I don't have the words.

Of course, the feeling passed after a few precious moments, and I found myself exactly as I am, Oblivion-mangled and unhappy, ready to cry. The sudden departure of this sense of glaring normalcy weakened my knees, and I collapsed against the edge of the wayshrine, ungraceful as a troll.

_If my time to die is near, just let me go. Otherwise…I could really, really use some help. Please._

The nicest words I could find, though hardly the usual forms for an entreaty for help. Dark clouds rolled in like charging bulls, only to clear a moment later in a stiff, cold breeze.

I found myself standing beside a ghost – a very cranky-looking ghost, whom I'm sure can be no one other than Pelinal Whitestrake himself. "Hail lady-knight! You seek my Relics with a worthy heart!"

What? No! I'm not…I don't…oh....someone shoot me.

"Your prayers have woken me from my endless dream. Or perhaps you have entered my dream, and I still sleep. I think others have sometimes spoken to me, others like you, but my memory is doubtful. Perhaps the others came after you." Every word came, like a roll of thunder, difficult to discern, but discernibly somewhat unhinged, his speech's inflections make me flinch. And yet...there's something vaguely familiar. Familiar, but in the way someone else's story becomes familiar, like someone else's memory.

But before we go any further, I'm _not_ hero material. Finding stuff, yes, fighting Dremora, okay…but…I don't even make a very good Imperial Champion! I lack the stature and the bearing!

"Your need must be great for the gods to allow us to speak." Bitter ruefulness permeated his speech, the words sinking in, like etchings into a wooden signboard.

"No, I'm not…"I protested, feeling a little desperate. "I'm…I'm in the business of…Ayleid artifact recovery! I fight Dremora and undead things!" Not the most obvious argument, but the first thing that jumped to my mouth.

The ghost furrowed his brows, as though I were not what he expected, and frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted me – though he couldn't criticize any Ayleid grave-robbing (I am _not _a grave robber!). That makes two of us. I'm done volunteering. I'm so _tired_ of volunteering, fighting everyone else's fights. I busied myself in examining Pelinal's armor – not very interesting – it's hard to see details on it, ghost that he is. All I can tell is it's a long coat, with an emblem over his breastbone.

Like the Amulet of Kings, but decidedly not...even as I thought this, I knew I had the wrong idea about it...and yet not so wide of the mark as to lose the arrow entirely.

Pelinal decided to ignore my protest, changing the subject. "Has Umaril the Accursed found a way back?" His voice hardened, becoming savage. Even in ghostly eyes I could see the gleam of madness. This individual is dangerous- to friend and foe alike. I'm glad he's just a ghost. "He has! The foulest of a foul race. A thousand curses upon his unholy name!" The madness flared, and I found myself remembering Roge's description of Sheogorath, when he had sought to win Wabbajack.

Mad as they get, but scarier because he's wholly unhinged. One minute he's complimenting your eyes, the next he's saying he'd like to rip them out. But he's mad to a purpose, and most lucid when expounding the direction of the madness.

"I should have known better. The Slavemasters are a cunning breed. Umaril found a way to cheat death, as I could not."The bitterness was so strong, I could almost taste it – and I could see the glimmerings of whatever madnesses held him in the past, burning oddly bright in his ghostly eye sockets. I want to get out of here...he scares me in a way no other living being – man or mer, anyway – ever has.

People call this a 'hero'? He's a few arrows shy of a quiver!

Additionally, I thought Meridia didn't like undead things? Could her Aurorans have acted independently of her, thinking to somehow…I don't know, revere her name – and just did it wrong? Or did it warp later, and that's why she hasn't sought to silence the Prophet? Mehrunes Dagon would have. Come to think of it,. I'm amazed he hasn't tried to silence _me _yet. We can still summon Dremora, mage can bind them to service, so there are still chinks between the Deadlands and Nirn.

I actually tried to convince Ocato to outlaw the practice, then tried to convince Archmage Traven, both without success. Ocato said it was not up to us to make that sort of decision, Archmage Traven said it was an understandable request, consider what I'd gone through, but in the long run and on the whole, Dremora for security were _integral_ for the University and it's members both here and abroad.

I asked him, rather impertinently, what the death toll and injury count of mages who were killed or hurt when the Dremora slipped their bindings, when Mehrunes Dagon crossed over...at which point Archmage Traven politely but frostily terminated the interview, and had me escorted out of his tower, and out of the University.

Poor Martin. The greatest sacrifice, and it didn't even guarantee a good seal between the worlds...

Pelinal startled me out of the downhill slide these thoughts set me on. "If you would seek for my Relics, I know little that can help you. All that has passed since my death is like mist that my mind cannot take hold of. My friends…they built a shrine upon the site of my death, where the Elves tormented me in a final act of revenge." Sounds like my life right now. "I can, at least, show you where it once stood. Perhaps it is there still. Look."

He pointed down, towards the southeastern shores of the Rumare. I recognize the spot - there should be a bridge nearby. Fixing the image of the place in my mind I nodded. "I'll look." Again, the words are mine, but not. Like words spoken in a dream, where the dreamer is aware, but unable to take control.

"May the gods grant you to destroy Umaril utterly, as I failed to do." Pelinal's words echoed strangely.

If found myself falling, falling, falling.

Flinching, my eyes opened. I sat, crumbled like dirty linen at the edge of the wayshrine, scraped where I'd slipped against it when I collapsed.

--A--

There's no sign of the scrapes on me now, but I rubbed my face anyway. "I've got an idea where to look. But I want to get some sleep first. I think there'll be plenty of fighting before this is over." There always is, when the Daedra get involved.

"Should I start rallying soldiers?" Ocato asked nervously.

"Not yet. I don't…I get the feeling they won't be much help."

"Ailirah?" Ocato's voice was gentler. "Is there anything else you want to tell me? Anything I can help with?"

Ban the practice of Dremora summoning. "No," I shook my head. "Thanks but, I don't think you can. If I find out anything more useful, I'll let you know. But this investigation…it doesn't look like I'll be back in Kvatch before the end of the week."

Ocato nodded, but didn't argue. Nor did he press me further. Merely bade me good day, at which point I returned home for some much needed sleep.

--A--


	79. Chapter 79

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Seventy-Nine

--A--

Walking along the road towards the place I saw in my vision with Pelinal, my mind wound about in lazy circles, like garden carp before feeding time. I'm not champion material. I never even wear my Dragon Armor – it's uncomfortable, and it hurts too much to even look at it. It sits, gathering dust on the display rack in my guest suite at the palace. I almost never go there. I may sit on the Council, and be a welcome guest (at least, as far as Ocato is concerned), but I wanted space of my own – hence the little place I bought, away from the White-Gold Tower.

The more I look at the armor, the more ridiculous I know I'll look. It's an Emperor's thing, not…not mine. I also haven't gone dungeon diving since Miscarcand.

We meant to, you know, Martin and I. And his security detail – I can compromise. Find a nice dungeon with monsters and treasure and go to town. Maybe have a picnic lunch afterwards. Dungeon diving is such a…

Listen to me. I rattle like a loose wheel. My haunting brushed my neck.

"Just think…" I started, but the touch, or approximation of touch, changed to a warning.

Reaching out so Frostreaver wouldn't slice me as I summoned it, a pair of horses came cantering up the road, heading towards the ruin in my vision. A pair of knights – or a knight and his squire (the words made my throat lock up). The knight looks like a knight – shiny armor, white horse, weapons at the ready. "Good day, fair lady!" He pulled his horse to a stop. I might pull to the side of the street, but no one on horseback has the right to run _anyone _on foot off the road. It's rude.

"Good day, sir knight." I answered back evenly as he brought his horse, prancing high-spiritedly, to a jitter. This horse isn't standing still for anyone, though it makes the tack rattle beautifully. I prefer my horses a little more docile. A horse and rider team only needs _one_ hellion, after all. As I don't have a squire to look after the beast, it makes no sense to bring my horse.

Ocato's idea, not mine, though the animal in question is beautiful in and of himself.

_You're the Imperial Champion, and the Countess of Kvatch,. I know you won't stuff yourself in a carriage, so use a horse! It's unseemly for you to walk everywhere!_

_I like walking. _

_Yes. Bandits and the like, also like it when you walk._

_They're dumb, and they're not learning. I don't let them make the same mistake twice – call it a civil service. _

Indeed. And I don't want a squire. "Have you heard the call of the Prophet? Do you walk the Pilgrim's Way?" The knight asked jovially, though his expression began to indicate maybe he had the wrong measure of me – unarmed, unarmored, walking about outside the Imperial City apparently on no business at all.

"No." Not anymore, and these days, my instincts are to play things close to the vest. I'd never tell Ocato, but now I'm aware I should report in, with the mission half-done, I still don't want to. If trouble hounds me, I don't want it hounding me in a place like the Imperial City. They've taken plenty of casualties from Dagon's invasion, they don't need this too. "No, I don't."

The knight looked a little startled. "Oh, my apologies." For moment he didn't sound quite so…scripted. He leaned forward in his saddle, peering down at me, his face rather good-natured beneath his helmet. Maybe he's not just a puffed up pretender like Farwil Indarys…maybe this is just uncertainty with a role he really wants to fill. Well, if you can fill it, by all means. Find me again, and I'll tell you everything I know, which is probably what you'll need to know. "No matter. I only thought I detected the light of a divine purpose in your eye."

I shook my head. "No, what you see are the fires of Oblivion."

The knight squinted, rather unattractively. "Then you are..."

"Don't shout about it," I counseled mildly.

"You were Martin's friend, weren't you? You were fortunate to have known him." The knight said this very gently, as though unsure whether it might set me off.

It took some restraint not to show a reaction to the words. Yes, we were friends. More than friends though I sometimes wonder...how much was real, and how much I imagined into it. Memories twist and shimmer like heat haze, when covered in loss. I don't doubt he cared for me, I just...

Can't allow myself to think like that. I'll go mad. "Thank you, I was very fortunate. Now, sir knight…"

"Roderic," he supplied politely.

"Safe travels." I inclined my head.

"Indeed, may the Nine bless you, and keep you, my lady." He looked uncertain, then forged ahead. "I would offer to escort you, wherever you are going…"

"Not at all, I'm going the opposite way you are," I dismissed this gently, which is, I think, what he wanted me to do.

"Very well. I must be on my way. The Pilgrimage of the Wayshrines is my only purpose now."

"I hope you find your purpose fulfilled." Drawing to the side of the road I watched him trot off, his squire following with a demure, 'my lady'.

Nice knights. Not bad fellows at all. No weird accents, no needless babble. I hate the over-dramatic ones, they make me grind my teeth. See? I'm learning restraint.

Turning back towards the bridge I pressed on. In my vision the ruin should be right…

Water stretched to either side of the bridge, even as I hastened my steps towards the middle. I saw the bridge...or maybe I remember the bridge, since I've stood upon it before...but I didn't pay attention to the water…perhaps cleared in the vision so I could see the goal? I certainly can't see it from here.

What the hell am I babbling about? Because I _am_ babbling.

My haunting and I walked across the bridge, picking the way down the steep sides towards the lakeshore. With the ruin still hidden by water, options are limited. Which means I'm going swimming, whether I want to or not.

Frowning at the indeterminate, indifferent gray sky, I pulled my cloak off. I don't want it fouling my arms while I swim. The non-visibility of the ruins isn't as daunting as one might imagine – even to me, who can't cast a half-decent water-breathing spell.

Reaching into my belt pouch I produced a ring, took my cloak off again, and folded it neatly. This ring is one of my older artifacts, but these days, since I don't get out much, when I gear up I bring everything but the kitchen washtub. As I say, I don't have a spell to allow me to breathe under water, so the ring runs one for me. It's a little uncomfortable, but far better than drowning – which is probably a very nasty way to go.

Wading into the frigid water, I slipped the ring on, letting myself slip beneath the surface, squinting in the murky depths, all my focus on finding the entryway. I'm not sure my haunting can swim...I'm equally not sure it matters or not, for a ghost.

--A--

Not all of the ruin – declared as 'Vanua' on a plaque above the entrance – was underwater. Just part of it near the entrance, with puddles in unexpected places. The whole place smells of wet mold and who knows what other slimy things which only grow in the dark and the damp. Glad to slip the ring off my finger – and feeling very uncomfortable as my gills resealed, leaving me a proper, human-looking neck in the process – I took a moment to take stock of my surroundings. Vanua is, after all, fairly invisible from land. Almost as though one must know it's there to gain entrance.

The dim lighting of the ruin and my not-really-natural darkvision did not require me to cast a magelight, though one appeared not long after, accompanied by drops of water. From the purple-hue, I'm pretty sure it's my ghost. For a moment I thought I caught the flicker of a shadow not present before, but when I looked back it was gone.

Trick on my eyes.

"I didn't realized you enjoyed dank, dark, dingy dungeons," I muttered, striding forwards and summoning Frostreaver.

My haunting-light bobbed forward, just behind my shoulder, out of my eyes, but casting clear light ahead. Walking soon had me feeling comfortably warm but a little damp around the edges. Oh well, at least I'm not cold.

My ghost proved the consummate coward I expected it to be, when the first skeleton came charging at me, hissing wordlessly, axe raised. I cut my eyeteeth on skeletons. Severing its backbone just beneath the ribs, skeleton and axe clattered to the floor. Turning back to my ghostly light – bobbing nervously near a wall - I shook my head. "Scare easy, don't you?"

I heard a distinct 'phhft'. First time it's ever given me anything I might consider an answer.

"I know – we're not all muscle-bound trolls. I'm sure you've got more skills than just the pretty lights – and they _are _pretty. Come on." I soothed, twitching my fingers at it, as though it were a reluctant dog. I actually appreciate the company, if not the cold feeling in my stomach.

So far, this looks like the sort of place I'd have taken Martin when the bureaucracy got to be too much for him. Suddenly the whole place feels too quiet for my liking. Tomblike.

--A--

Tomblike indeed. If dungeon diving – or more accurately, noticing traps in dungeons – didn't require an ability to spot small details, I'd have missed this one. The sprawl of Vanua stretches deep and wide beneath the waters of Rumare, and the surrounding lands, and often as not the caverns I had to crawl through were not part of the original structure, which is compromised, collapsed, or has become blocked in the intervening years. So I wound up quite muddy – hopefully most of it will come off when I leave the ruin.

The skeleton lay across the floor – one of the few not running around with killing me on their minds. In fact, it was the only one not running around at any point. I may feel rather desperate (desperately isolated) but I'm not about to let some crappy skeleton chop my head off. If I go, I want to go _quickly_. It's not too much to want to die on my own terms, now is it? Especially as my family doesn't believe in suicide…and I'm not sure I've the stomach for it.

And…_he _wouldn't approve.

My haunting flapped, as if it could feel my mood darkening.

"It's okay…let's have a look at Bones here." Setting Frostreaver aside I knelt. The curiosity is evoked from the fact the skeleton isn't and wasn't moving. It's his shield that's interesting, and the cuirass, which is in good condition for something so old.

The shield looks like the emblem on Pelinal's mail: a shape, like a diamond (here, it's red). Not like the Amulet of Kings, as I first thought. From the looks of things, the dead man – knight - was overwhelmed by something – something possibly long gone. There's just old skeletons in here, after all. For an old crypt, this place is surprisingly under populated with the things usually I expect to find. Gently opening his pack, I began rifling through the contents.

Are you going to tell me who you are? Did you leave a means by which you could be identified? My brothers and I all carry little bronze tabs in our backpacks, with the owner's name and home city on it. Mine still reads 'Ailirah of Leyawiin'.

Remains of rations. Waterskin. A piece of what felt like paper, which disintegrated the moment my fingers brushed it and…magicka.

Pulling the artifact out, I waved my own magelight into existence, brightening the room with a warm ivory light. The book had spells of preservation intrinsic to its cover – and to the pages in between, for they did not crumble when I unlatched and opened the book. Whatever's in here, he didn't care who read it.

Settling on my heels, I looked around for a anything nasty sneaking about, then looked back at the book.

--

_This journal is a record of failure. My failure. _(Sounds like the beginning to my own journal.)

_In the immediate sense, this is no doubt obvious. If you are reading this, you are probably standing over my body, slain in the depths of the Shrine of the Crusader. Perhaps the gods granted me the gift of at least glimpsing the holy Helm before I died, undeserving though I am. I must believe that you are indeed a holy knight, following in my footsteps in quest of the Crusader's Relics. _(Wow – would _you_ be disappointed.) _It is to you, Sir Knight of my hopes, that I direct these words. May the account of my failures help you avoid my fate._

_Know that my failures encompass far more than my own death {which is of little account, at the end of a long life}. The high ideals of the Knights of the Nine, of service to the gods rather than men, of dedication to a higher purpose -- these are my failures, as I shall record here. _(I felt a pang of sympathy. Noble goals, again met with ruin and failure. And some people wonder why I feel so…bitter. Isolated.)

_As I write this, the scratching of my pen the only sound in the empty Priory, I am preparing to embark on my last quest for the Helm of the Crusader. I know that my chance of success is small. I am too old for such a task. This quest should have been taken up by the next generation of Knights of the Nine, while Sir Caius and Sir Berich and the rest of us stayed behind and spun tales of our days of glory. Alas, there is no next generation. Sir Berich is my embittered enemy, the rest of my old companions are all dead. There is only me, the last stubborn Knight of a failed Order. _(I looked at the skeleton, frowning. I can't imagine ending up enemies with any of my close friends: Caro, Baurus, or Cyrus, for instance. I imagine it would be the second-worst day of my life.)

_For many years I blamed Sir Berich for the dissolution of the Order, but in my old age I have finally come to recognize my own part in those tragic events. I now believe that the seeds of our destruction were sown early, although the fruit did not ripen until late. Even in the first heady days, questing for the Cuirass with Sir Caius and Sir Torolf, I set the pattern of personal glory. The Cuirass was mine, and although it resided in the Priory, I wore it into battle and accepted the acclaim of my fellows and the people for its recovery. And so it went. The Sword and Greaves, recovered by Sir Berich, became his personal arms, and the Gauntlets to Sir Casimir. Why not? Should the holy weapons lie idle while there was evil to be vanquished? And who more fitting to carry them than the knight who had proved himself worthy by their recovery? So we told ourselves -- so I told myself -- but all that followed flowed from this._

_When Sir Berich wanted to take his Relics with him to the war, who was I to forbid him? I, who had jealously considered the Cuirass my own and none other's? Sir Berich was wrong, but I was wrong first, and the blame for the dispute over the Relics falls first on me, the leader and founder of the Knights, who should have set a higher example, but was instead first to claim a Relic for my own._

_Sir Berich's later actions I will leave for others to judge. But let it be known that I do not blame him for the dissolution of the Knights. If he would speak to me, I would tell him so myself. He and I are now all that are left of the original Knights. The others are all dead, and I have dedicated myself to recovering their bodies and interring them in the Priory Undercroft, as is fitting for such holy warriors. Alas that they did not have the leader that they deserved._

_Now it is time for me to depart on my quest for the Helm. If you would follow in my footsteps, Sir Knight, know that the Priory basement, at least, will remain inviolate. I have sealed the stairs and only my ring will now open it. My brother knights will sleep in peace, in company with the Cuirass, the only Relic that remains in the Order's keeping. I say that, although the Order is officially dissolved, hoping and believing that the Knights of the Nine will one day be reborn. Perhaps you are the one to restore the Order. If so, go to the Priory in the West Weald. Use my ring to enter the vaults beneath the Priory House. There you will find the Cuirass, and claim it for your own if you are a true knight._

_May the Nine guard and guide you. Farewell._

_Sir Amiel_

_Priory of the Nine, The West Weald, County Skingrad  
Year 153 of the Septim Era_

--

With a heavy sigh I shook my head. I don't _want _to claim the Cuirass…or the Helmet, but I don't seem to have much else of a lead on what I should do. I keep hoping some hero will turn up and take over…but I get the feeling if I don't move my lazy ass, I'll just get old sitting around waiting.

On the other hand, Amiel himself sounds like an all-right decent sort, whatever his failings were. He was human – humans foul things up. Still, for someone who meant to take the bodies of his brothers in arms back to a safe haven…someone ought to do similar for him.

"I can't take your body, I don't have the equipment. Unless I burn the remains, but I know Imperials don't set much store in cremation," I addressed this to my ghost, who bobbed in a way I deemed as helplessly.

Carefully I took Amiel's ring from his bony finger – the bones I touched crumbling into chunky powder as I handled them – and the key from about his neck. "I can't take your body back, but I hope your weapons and armor will stand in your place." The chainmail went in my backpack, the sword and shield I secured to my backpack as best I could, then hoisted the pack onto my shoulders again.

If this thing didn't have feather charms on it, I would _not _be able to carry it. But when you're in artifact recovery, you know how to carry things – if awkwardly. I need to find a mage who can put a charm on this pack, to let me carry way too much crap around. Usually I'm not after armor and swords, so I forget.

--A--

By the time I reached what I hoped was the last level of Vanua, I found myself heartily glad I'd picked up Amiel's things, to take them back to the Priory he mentioned as his headquarters. The shield fastened to my backpack took three arrows – and I mean the big arrows that can bring down a charging bear if they impact right, and trip him if they don't – any one of which would have killed me.

With my mood as it is, I'll take it as a sign Amiel's spirit – wherever it is - approves my intentions.

Except for the skeleton archers, I found myself generally disappointed with the helm and its protections. All undead, mostly pretty easy pickings, so long as I can keep them in front of me. Even the ones with magicka. The helm itself was about what I expected from a centuries-old suit of armor – though in better condition than even Amiel's weapons and armor. Winged, with slits forming a cross to allow vision and speech, it glowed hauntingly silver. Under my fingers it _felt_ strange. Unlike any relic I've ever touched, and oddly reassuring to hold.

Don't think that. It's just for the time being – I don't volunteer for stuff anymore.

Why do I get the feeling I'll _be volunteered_ sooner or later?

--A--

Journal contents provided courtesy of UESP.


	80. Chapter 80

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Eighty

--A--

When Amiel said 'in the West Weald' he _meant_ 'damn near in Elsweyr'. Not that I don't like Elsweyr, I would kill for some chocolate right about now (even if it has spicy peppers in it), but _Oblivion's imps_, I didn't realize my ability to get good and wholly _lost _was _essential_ to _finding_ the place.

The Priory itself, however, strongly resembles Weynon Priory, for all it's lain unused so long. The garden looked at war with itself, between dying of neglect and impossibly stubborn plants. Hmm. Sounds a bit familiar, doesn't it?

The chapel and the priory house yielded nothing of use, even if I'd cared to test my weight on the one remaining cot. Someone waited here. Outside, I discovered a tiled sort of circle, but it lay partly overgrown, though the tiles were not stone. I've seen similar things done with heavy crystal in various ruins – not always Ayleid – before. It also means there's a secret here – because if one uses heavy crystal for such a mosaic, one generally should see it lit up.

Once again, I prowled around insides of the buildings, finally stopping in a corner of the Priory House, which I'd missed my first time through. The seal on the floor caught my eye. Eight diamonds in a ring around a ninth, a motif which keeps recurring, whether I look for it or not.

Fishing out Amiel's ring, I slipped it onto my right hand and stepped briskly onto the central diamond. No sooner had I cleared the distance from the edge to the center, then the floor rumbled, segments dropping down into stairs.

Descending the stairs, and taking off the ring as I did so, I came to a door, which was not locked. Getting to the Undercroft itself proved easy – straight through a forge and sparring area in the basement of the priory house. In fact, I'm a little uneasy. This is a listening silence. Even as I stepped into the Undercroft proper, torches – real ones, not magelight imitations – exploded into life. Above in the ceiling, a large, round window, glowed with strong, blue-green light as if filtered through water. The heavy-crystal motif from the grounds above – and from here very beautifully placed. Vague shadows crept across it where the overgrowth shows, but the motif is plainly identifiable from here. Below the window, lay a repeat of the diamonds and circle motif I found in the chapel above. Taking my pack off, I fished out Amiel's things, then began looking for a place to put them – the nearest was a small niche in the wall. There were many of these niches, some with stone effigies of knights at rest, one at least was empty.

Out of memory, which felt so ancient as to be a part of someone else's life, childish voices, my own included, rang out on a sunny, balmly Leyawiin afternoon, as children shared the chore of turning a skipping rope, or took their turn to see how long they could avoid getting tripped up.

_Blessings, blessings, Eight then Nine_

_Learn to skip to them in time._

Shaking my head, I silenced the memory. What good were nursery rhymes now? In nursery rhymes and children's stories...things don't end like this. That finished, I reshouldered my backpack, padding up to the motif inlaid on the floor, peering up at the window. Pelinal vs. Umaril – I'm sure of it and, yes, it does look like he's got wings…or something like the framework for wings…bolted to his arm.

No sooner had my boot touched the edge of the outermost circle of the motif I smelled it – ectoplasm. Nice, fresh and undoubtedly disgustingly slimy. Frostreaver was in my hand before I turned around, the skirts of my armor beating against my knees as hazy ghostly outlines formed, then grew semi-solid.

"By the strength and guidance of the Nine, who comes before us upon this sacred ground seeking the Cuirass of the Divine Crusader?" One of the ghosts rumbled. This one stood directly opposite me, and I realized I stood in such a way as to complete the number nine.

Nine Knights. Nine Divines. Nine diamonds…I'm in it up to my neck again…diamonds on the wayshrines…but only eight, in that case, the place of the ninth usually filled by the bowl which catches rainwater, for pilgrims and the faithful to sprinkle against their foreheads.

"My name is Ailirah," I answered back, eyes flicking between ghostly shapes. "I came to return the arms and armor of one Sir Amiel. His journal indicated he might appreciate resting here."

"_I_ am Sir Amiel." The ghost answered dryly. At this distance I can't make out features, but I suspect he's surprised. Looking past him I saw what I missed in my preoccupation with setting Amiel's affairs in order, and perusing the window. A cuirass, gleaming brightly, of lighter make than my own, with the red emblem emblazoned on the chest. Something stirred, a sort of innate memory, an association of ideas about that…this whole thing. Maybe did hear the tale as a child.

I'd also like a closer look, but I'm not crossing through ghosts. I didn't come here to pick a fight with the undead, or anyone else.

The helm in my backpack suddenly weighs very heavy – though I suspect this is more within the confines of my own mind, than anything else.

"Well, then, that stuff's yours. I couldn't bring your body. I'm sorry." Does anyone here know how_ odd _it is,chit-chatting with a ghost?

The others shifted with the ghostly clink of chainmail links. They all wear the same armor I saw on Amiel's body, though this is to be expected. I also suspect that the reason they're one ghost short is because of Berich, I think his name was.

A waver of magicka made me turn. The door through which I came sealed itself, and I heard the grinding, indicating the floor-stairs were sealing me down here. "What is this?" I demanded softly. I'm going to be swimming in ectoplasm in a few minutes…my inner Dremora bristled.

"Step forward, adventurer, and face us each in honorable combat." Amiel intoned. What? Why? "For the vows we failed to revere in life, we shall uphold in death."

I resisted, with difficulty, the urge to roll my eyes. "Look, I'm not here for your quest, I'm not here for the steel trap over there, and I'm not here for…for anyone!" Swallowing hard, my eyes stung. Let someone else do it for once. I'm _done volunteering_! There's no _point_! There's _no one to volunteer for_! The pain which likes to hide under a curtain of Dremora-rage screamed in my ears, venting the true depth of its half-hidden existence.

The fact is, without the anger…I'd probably have died already. But the slow burn runs hot, and sears the edges of pain, even if the rage can't cauterize the hurt.

"No one can deny their destiny," one of the other knights pointed out.

The words hit like a hammer against a pane of glass. I said it once. The Blades said it once. It makes me sick, knowing now that 'destiny' ended up a cold death, without so much as a body for those who loved him to mourn. The Empire needed him alive…forget Dagon.

"And your destiny may not extend past yonder stairwell," he concluded.

The anger surged, my pendant burning cold against my chest, as it does when the Dremora-fires in my soul flare. Well, if you want a fight I suppose I'll have to oblige you. My fingers curled tightly about Frostreaver's grip. The unspoken, half-formed thought that, perhaps this time someone will succeed in releasing me from this prison of flesh remained unspoken, half formed.

But lurking like an eel in its hole when the waters are muddy and prey unwary.

"No unworthy soul shall lay hands upon this sacred artifact without the leave of the Knights of the Nine," Amiel intoned.

You're not listening.

The air grew cold. The Dremora within me roiled beneath the surface of composure. "Fine. You want a fight." I stomped into the circle. Tell you what I don't want – I don't want this cuirass. I don't want the helmet – speaking of which, I'd better get my backpack off. It'll be in my way. "You want to do this all at once, or draw it out?" I demanded grimly, eyeing one than the other of the ghosts, turning about in a circle as I did so.

"Graceless hero," one of the others muttered softly.

"Damn right. Except I'm not a hero." I'm the one who's always _late_. "I never claimed to be." Everyone else calls me Hero. Champion.

The ghost-knights took a moment of looking around between themselves, and apparently decided on an order in which to fight. I expected someone to spring at me from behind, though the knight who walked forward did so very obviously. So much so I realized they mean this 'honorable combat' thing seriously.

Which is a bit of a bad position for them, because when you're like me, five foot nothing, every fight is unfair. The dull _boom_ as Frostreaver's frost damage couldn't affect the ghost rattled my teeth. The blow itself rattled my arms to the elbow, as when the knight swung at me, he held _nothing_ back.

Unfortunately, he's not as strong as a Dremora, and I may not have been fighting Dremora during the past six months, but I haven't stinted my practice. Me, who bitched to Martin about keeping his skills sharp. I don't need to add the title 'hypocrite' to the rest. I really don't.

Frostreaver bit into the ectoplasm of his body, ripping through, sending the mess into gelatinous globs on the floor. Anger made me fast, the second swoop dispersed his ghostly form, which reappeared as the runes on the floor glowed.

Magicka suffused the place, though it did nothing to me. I suspect, watching the next knight enter the ring, the magicka here prevents me from dispersing their ghosts without releasing the shackles that hold them. They require rest, someone to finish what they started.

I swallowed hard. You don't find many like that, these days.

My heart pounding in my ears, reminding me painfully that I still _breathed_, _existed_…I don't call it living. And for me, there is no shout to break the silence. The second knight held an Akaviri katana. My body moved, powered by the pounding of my own blood, the feel of something Daedric burning in the space between heart and stomach, of its own accord. Too many days in Cloud Ruler Temple, too many men and women who knew the feel of a katana, the smooth motions it requires to effectively slay an enemy, too many sessions of mindless training when there was naught else to do made the fight quicker than the first.

"Is this your idea of a fair fight?" I demanded, my voice harsh and raucous, echoing off the stone of the Undercroft. "Eight on one, back to back? Fresh fighters every round?"

"No one said the battle would be easy, lady-knight."

"_Don't call me that_!" I slammed into the third knight just as he stepped into the ring. "I'm not a knight! And I'm not intimidated by you!" Stupid ghosts…stupid _stupid_ undead things…and their stony silence as I hacked into the third knight to finish him off only made the anger burn hotter…rapidly burning out, leaving me too aware of the cold depths of icy despair beneath.

Something I could drown in. The Dremora in me screaming for a fight, to refuse these fools the privilege of ending the so-called Gatewalker…would have me make careless mistakes. Humanity screams for an end…and it's like a war inside my head, independent of the ghosts about me.

Fear outweighed grief as I turned to face the fourth knight, shaking from the inner battle.

Ghosts…fear gripped my guts. If I fall here…will I wind up one of these unfortunate souls? Trapped by unfulfilled purpose? Forever wandering the world, a pale shadowy specter, mourning the inequities of my life forever? Until some adventurer managed to destroy my ectoplasmic…

I screamed as I caught a glancing blow – my chainmail deflected most of it, leaving almost no mark upon the metal rings, even as I sunk Frostreaver deep into the knight. His longsword should have punctured me, but skipped on the chainmail, and if could feel the magicka in it flared softly to life. Whatever properties the weapon he held had, I was warded against at least one.

But Martin knew I spend a lot of time fighting undead things. And even if he was no archmage, one doesn't have to be to enchant armor. Whatever he did, it's taken some of the bite out of their weapons…as they don't feel the bite of Frostreaver's icy teeth.

The touch of his magicka, even if I couldn't prove it was actually his, didn't help – in my mind, it can't be anyone else's spell. In fact, it hurts more than the blow I sustained already. It's like losing him again, like once again he's dying for someone else…worst of all, for me. Keeping me alive, keeping me from following wherever it is he's gone.

Jerking around, silently choking down a sob, the fourth knight splattered on the floor, damaged enough to withdraw. The fight isn't enough anymore – this painful realization is killing the Dremora-rage that usually bolsters me. I parried another blow.

My side throbbed, bruised ribs, but nothing broken. Still, its hard to move, and even my own weak restoration spell – which the knight let me complete before attacking - couldn't repair all the damage.

Fear and rage battled in my head. I'm angry. I'm hurt. I'm powerful. I'm dying. They're pathetic, weak husks of ectoplasm and magicka. There's eight of them, and one of me. Since when did you care about odds?

Rage and fear. Dremora and human, struggling back and forth, though in a roundabout way feeding one another, to the point even if I wanted to use magicka, I don't think I can. I can't focus.

_Clang. _The blow shook me to my shoulder, my side screaming in protest, the injury making me turn towards it. Only a swift drop and scuttle for a new position saved me, the knight's sword hitting the floor just above my head.

I was never so glad to be _short_. At least I'm not shorter by a head. Yet.

A lucky blow finished the fifth knight, but by now numb apathy settled over my mind, the movements to block, parry and attack becoming mechanical, putting me on the defense, instead of on the offense. And this knight was better than the others so far.

Tripping out of range I passed out of the circle, the knights scrambling to get out of my way. To my own shock, I was neither penalized for leaving the ring, nor did the knight I was fighting show any indication he's notices.

Fair fight my ass – the ring on the floor isn't a real boundary!

But…they never said it was. Damn. Still, this opens up new possibilities. If there's one thing I learned from my brothers, it's how to use the environment around me to my advantage. This time, I managed to corner him, fighting my way off the defense, and forcing him back back…only to cleave him head to heel when he realized he couldn't go anywhere, too much focus devoted to the questioning sword point.

The seventh thought he had _me_ cornered, only for me to slip past him as he tried to negotiate the tight space with a large weapon – which rarely works. A few well-placed slashes left me with failing strength, a pounding headache which threatened the vision in my left eye, and a swell of desperation as the first of the last two knights came at me.

He could see my weakness, see the slowness, and charged towards me, intending to make a clean blow. My arms rose, muscles trained to do what my mind could not direct them to. The jolt of weapon on weapon made me back up, but the second movement as I brought Frostreaver's other end around seemed to happen in slow motion, narrowly slipping past the knight's sword to bite into his throat.

Panting, sweat dripping down my face, as if I'd just crawled out of a pond, the pound of the headache making every sound a painful dagger in my ears, the lights of the room lances against my eyes…if only the torches would stop flickering…

Lights.

Sir Amiel came towards me, I watched him from beneath my brows, struggling to strip every iota of magicka I had into one spell. If I do this wrong I'm dead…is that such a bad thing?...if I do it right…he's dead.

Deader.

Then again, this headache might still kill me…I've never felt pain like this, it's…it's _nauseating_.

"You're a brave woman not-lady-knight." Amiel prepared to strike. "Do you have last words?"

"Yeah.." I panted, looking up. For an honorable knight he sure likes to take advantage of a foe's weakness. "_Lights out_."

The torches nearest Amiel and I hissed as they went out, my variant on an ice spell smothering them, using all the magicka Icoudl readily summon to make sure the spell worked. The sudden lack of light startled Amiel, but with the removal of the flickers aggravated my headache, and the sudden onset of darkvision gave me the edge I needed. A a moment later I was almost nose to nose with Amiel. I could feel his cold, ghostly breath on my face, Frostreaver sunk to the grip in his chest, reminding me vaguely of Kathutet, the Dremora doorwarden.

Amiel staggered back, separating from Frostreaver like ice melting away from a stick.

Frostreaver clanged as it hit the ground, the torches reigniting. I collapsed to my knees, feeling utterly spent, then flopped forward, content to lie on the ground like a broken doll, the cold stone leeching into my cheek. Vaguely, so vaguely, I heard and answered questions. Who am I? Where do I come from? What is it that pounds so painfully in my breast? Where is the rage? Where is the hurt?

It passed in a haze of pain and exhaustion such as I never knew before now. I kept hoping to feel the cold kiss of ghost-steel somewhere my armor didn't protect, but it never came.

--A--

I made myself get up. I must have passed out. My head still hurts, but not as badly as before – now the Undercroft is lit only by the large window, and the ghosts themselves, glowing eerily in the darkness. "You are a noble knight, Ailirah of Leyawiin." Amiel's voice declared.

It's been a very long time since anyone called me that.

"You may take the cuirass from this place. You have proved yourself."

"I didn't…come here to take the cuirass." I spat, glowering into the darkness. "Where's my bag?"

One of the ghosts moved, his greenish light falling on the worn implement. Stalking over, favoring one side as I did so, I fished the helm out. "I also came, to put this back. So here it is." Lumbering across the room I found the cuirass, up close, a magnificent artifact in and of itself. Rivaling even the armor of Tiber Septim.

Memory clenched, and as my expression drew, I slammed the helm into the armor's stand and turned to go, scooping up my bag as I went.

"We will wait for your return." Amiel announced serenely.

Turning the foot of the now-unblocked way out of the undercroft I glared at him. "I'm not a hero." I snapped. I"m out of that business. It's no fun anymore.

"I didn't call you one," Amiel reasoned evenly. "But I know a decent knight when I see one. And sooner or later, you'll be back. You're already in deeper than you think." It did not sound like a threat.

Deep down some part of me groaned, knowing I have been conned by some scheme, plot or another into doing someone else's dirty work for them.

And yes, I use the term dirty-work on purpose.

"I'm going…to Kvatch." I growled. It's not 'home'. I'm not even sure where 'home' is. But Kvatch has a bath, a bed, and people I can tell to leave me the hell alone while I get some rest.

Maybe someone will take offense to my walking out of this quest before it gets started and strike me down. Not that I'm particularly hopeful.

As long as it's not Mehrunes Dagon. I've got a grudge. If I die, it won't be because he or his flunkies got me. _That_ would turn me into a ghost. A vengeful one.

--A--


	81. Chapter 81

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Eighty One

--A--

"Countess? Countess!"

Turning to see who was shouting, my world went still and silent. I saw the motion of a flamboyantly dressed Bosmer trotting towards me across the courtyard of Castle Kvatch, looking excited.

Behind him, laconic as the jungle cats of Elsweyr…was Kathutet. His eyes lit on me and a smirk filled his features, eyes gleaming with a malice-amusement mix that made my heart stop beating in my chest.

For a moment the silence was deafening, as if my ears had stopped working. "What are you doing here?" The question was not for the Bosmer, though the mer did not realize it right away. The blood rushed from my face, from my chest leaving me feeling cold, almost paralyzed by the unexpected presence of the Dremora. Unbidden, terribly clear and mostly unwanted the memory of a searing kiss burned through the heavy curtains in my mind.

"Now, Countess, is that really how you greet guests? Or," he strode past the Bosmer, who had stopped talking when he realized I was addressing the Dremora. Kathutet bore down on me, stopping within arms' reach. "Did you miss me?" He asked in a tone as soft as velvet, as rich as chocolate.

Two drastically different impulses yanked hard on me, pulling in opposing directions. One, to bite his lip and throw him on the ground, one to punch his lights out and stomp on his face.

"What a pleasant coincidence."

"I don't believe in coincidence." My voice murmured, my head starting to ache. The feeling of being torn apart was getting to the point of robbing me of coherent thought.

"As well you should not." Kathutet allowed with a wicker grin, though I don't doubt this meeting isn't wholly scripted. Nor do I doubt he meant to run into me, sooner or later. Memory burned, pressing harder against my mind.

The pull in the favor of violence won out. Unfortunately, I mis-stepped, just as the Bosmer started shouting at Kathutet. Kathutet gave an inflammatory laugh, nimbly stepping out of my way.

I would have come across the courtyard and yanked his skull out through his eye sockets, but Brother Tevyn was suddenly in my way, his arms thrown about me, dragging me hissing and screeching from the laughing Dremora, who seemed to take the abrupt surge to the fore of my own Dremoraishness as encouraging.

"Get that thing out of here!" Tevyn barked, still struggling to keep me in check. "Get it out!" The roar of command in my ears startled me – Tevyn is usually so soft spoken. Then again, it was not enough to shock me back to myself. All I could see was the Dremora, something I can't love, and can't hate...

Kathutet shouted something in Daedric, words I didn't understand – though I know the tone. _Don't put your hands on me_. "Let him go! Just go!" I roared, the words burning my lips.

Martin's amulet swung forward from beneath my shirt as I struggled, for a moment swinging like a pendulum in the air before me.

Kathutet's eyes lit upon it. "Ah…how sweet…" But he vanished before he could complete the thought, the Bosmer originally with him waving his arms frantically, abolishing the summons holding the Dremora.

With the infuriating, insides-wrenching, turmoil-causing presence gone I felt myself slacken slightly, though Brother Tevyn didn't to take for granted that I was quite finished. People stared, gaping in shock.

Raising a hand I jammed the amulet back under my shirt, the metal searing cold against my chest, but unable to stop the Dremora moment. Heart pounding painfully in my chest, I looked up from the cobblestones, straightening up as best I could. "What were you thinking?" I hissed at the Bosmer, trying to break free of Tevyn.

"Not with you in a temper," he grunted, digging his heels in. "Stay put."

"You know I've fought Dremora – more than once. What were you thinking _bringing one here_?!" It's angering, seeing one suddenly. Or is it…seeing _that_ one, in particular? Or does it have nothing to do with the Bosmer's lack of judgment and the single, dark through which filtered so seductively across my mind upon seeing Kathutet again.

Something no well brought up human girl has any business thinking.

He can't fill the gap. I wouldn't trust him to...but maybe…maybe, and I don't even want to whisper it to myself…he could have alleviated the crushing isolation, for a little while made me forget about this whole miserable world, this miserable _existence _I've cobbled together.

Because no one could call it truly living.

Self-disgust rose with bile as the Bosmer stammered about bodyguards, bandits, and dangerous times. Would I…could I betray Martin's memory with the Dremora…just for the sake of stealing a few moments away for my present predicament? Could I turn to a known enemy, simply for the hope of of a moment outside my waking nightmare?

My breathing became slightly more ragged, labored, and Tevyn took advantage of the moment to hustle me towards the castle, declaring I was overwrought, under great stress and pressure…

Blah blah blah. My inner Dremora wants the real Dremora.

And my haunting is nowhere to be found. Assuming possibly that here, in Kvatch, I could be left safely on my own for a bit. Well, it's not as if my haunting is with me every hour of every day – just when it thinks I'll need it.

--A--

Dressed for bed, I sat at the small table in the Countess' suite, feeling wholly miserable. Tevyn was eager to have me move into a 'proper' set of rooms, though I would much prefer the old one. I don't have it in me to argue anymore.

Torn in so many different directions, dying from a wound which will never heal and shows no outward sign, desperate for some measure of peace or relief from what feels like a lifetime of suffering rolled into a day, every day, these past five months.

Beginning with the fell blow which should have killed me. The loss of _him_.

Maybe it's seeing the Dremora which caused the sudden downward spiral towards rock-bottom…coherent thoughts about him, usually puts my mood in a direction I don't want it to go. Seeing him in person - in the flesh - is infinitely worse. Maybe I just now realized how…how _hopeless_ it all feels…

Looking at the bowl of fruit Tevyn had sent up – I refused steadfastly to come down for supper, and no one pressed the issue – I sighed, fingering a peach, with no inclination to eat it. Does it make me a weak person…this unending apathy? Should I…should I be stronger, somehow pull myself out of it? The thought made my eyes sting.

With what strength?

Worse yet – what's wrong with me? Even the strength I had before, to live in _his_ memory fades. Fades to an unspoken wish to simply vanish from the world, not this slow fade into nothingness.

Outside rain beat on the heavy windows, hidden by thick curtains. And tomorrow…tomorrow I send word to Ocato of my progress and begin the search for the relics in earnest.

He's doing it again…whatever Kathutet _is_ in Mehrunes Dagon's realm…he's good at warping people…

…_watching your sweet souls_ twist _and warp…_he said it himself, it's what he's good at. He's done this to me before, but not like this…I can almost see him leering at me, in the back of my mind.

Digging my fingers into my scalp, through my hair, I squeezed my eyes shut. I don't need to ask 'why is he doing this?' – it's very obvious. The question is…why am I falling for it again? Silence greeted me, as it ever has to the point all I really wanted to do was cry – but no tears came. Slowly I sat back, and slipped the ring, my ring of summons for Frostreaver and my armor, off my finger, letting it drop onto the table. Vivid blue light seeped through the stone, cold and vivid.

It could never work…

"Kathutet." The word fell from my mouth like a stone, just clearly audible. With a bitter laugh, I stood up…

And felt a Daedric shiver in the air, moments before I backed into something living and solid.

A hand closed over my mouth to keep me from shouting, another curling snuggly across my midriff. "I was wondering when you'd call. Did you know your room has been warded? _Twice_?"

Tevyn taking security seriously. He's not one to underestimate Dremora. I couldn't answer Kathutet with his hand over my mouth, but I forced myself to relax.

"Which begs the question, what you've called me for?" He let my mouth go, tracing vague patterns along my jaw, down my throat – I swallowed hard, not liking his hand that close to my ability to breathe – though at the same time painfully, deliciously aware of my own vulnerability - down to my collarbones, across the lacy edge of my nightgown. "I'm waiting for an answer, _Lirah_." He hissed softly in my ear, my skin breaking out in gooseflesh – which seemed to intrigue him somewhat.

"I…didn't think you'd hear me." I swallowed again. He's making my insides roil…and I can't tell if it's a good feeling or a bad one…it simply _is. _

"Didn't you?" Kathutet chuckled darkly. "Surely you knew I'd hang around. See what sort of trouble I could get you into. After all…it's what I do. Isn't it?" His voice rumbled thick with promise, veiled threats, and simple gratification.

I remained silent, torn between the further realization I've just made a bad mistake and the need to simply _stop caring_.

"I'd have come sooner," Kathutet purred. "But whoever warded you in did a fairly decent job. Such a visit requires…an invitation."

"Does it?"

"Oh yes. I imagine any Daedra would need your express permission to enter these four walls. Very clever work – highly disappointing. Which," he leaned forward- quite a bit as he's a lot taller than me, "brings me to my next question: why ever did you ask for me?"

He's enjoying this. "Why were you lurking, waiting to be asked?" I responded, a little coldly, my inner Dremora berating me for such high-handedness. I had, after all, made the invitation.

"You spit fire but there's ice where human heart should be," his hand slipped across my collarbones, only to have me reach up and stop the progression towards my heart. Or near it. I don't plan to let him grope and squeeze as he pleases…despite the fact half of me would like nothing better.

Why did you call him? And why do you think he showed up?

"What are you doing to me?" I managed to demand, as his fingers wound dexterously through mine. He's…this can't be only about a chance to ruin a human…even one who's caused his master so much distress…can it?

"You mean now, or in the very near future?" he breathed.

"Both."

"Mmm. I don't want to answer two questions." His hand closed around my wrist, the other sliding to my hip. "I'm getting inside your head, Gatewalker," Kathutet breathed, "for my own inscrutable, insidious reasons."

He jerked me around sharply, my shoulder wrenching in its socket. "_Don't scream_." The words held power. My teeth remained clenched as Kathutet splayed the fingers of the hand he still held, looking at them intently. "One of which being…you killed me. And it was a very painful experience."

He kissed my fingertips before dragging them to his throat, and guiding them down his muscled chest. I closed my eyes, the forefront of my mind briefly rational, as if bracing for something unpleasant, which didn't come. He merely slipped my fingers through a gap between the buttons of his shirt. For a moment I thought he might just be playing some sick game, a game I'm stuck in - and part of me doesn't mind.

In the sea of inhumanly warm flesh, I found the scar.

"The mark stayed," Kathutet murmured, "Even after I was recalled from banishment. It's a matched set you, know…and you know where to find the other one."

Wordlessly I reached up with my free hand, and found the spot where the other scar should rest, where Frostreaver's end would have punched through. Through the fine material of his dark shirt I could feel the slight bump. "Very good." Kathutet leaned further, kissing my jaw, then along my neck and shoulder, hot breath against my unguarded skin.

For a moment I felt my muscles slacken, a wordless motion of assent.

Before my mental argument yanked at my attention. "What are you…?" I couldn't keep the waver out of my voice. He's not just any Dremora. I'm going to do this…I know I am…and even if part of me is all right with it…I know, philosophically, this is the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life.

And I will regret it later.

"I'm very, _very_ special," Kathutet answered, straightening up, taking my chin in one hand and looking me in the eyes. "I know," he continued softly, "that you don't really want me." For a very long moment he kissed me, hard, bruising my lips as I nearly choked on the gesture. My inner Dremora cheered.

My humanity started to fight, but the strength to argue, to tell him 'you don't get to hurt me' failed.

"I know what you're thinking, too," he continued, fingering my lower lip, then tracing around an eye. "That you might be able to envision someone else…some certain _dead_ human we can both name?" Kathutet thoughtfully bit his lower lip, then let it slip free of his teeth. "The answer is no. It's not him. And you'll know it. Irrefutably." A threat that doesn't _sound _like a threat.

I swallowed hard as Kathutet slipped his fingers into my hair, then wrapped my hair twice about his fist. "I understand." I stood up on tiptoe, closing my eyes, unerringly finding his mouth – this time the kiss didn't hurt. I suspect this painlessness won't last long.

This isn't courage...this is insanity. It means I've finally broken...

The door exploded open. Kathutet's grip tightened, painfully, fingers digging into my skin like stout pegs. Turning I saw Tevyn, looking absolutely livid - though not at me.

I could hear the rustle of my little ghost.

"You!" Kathutet's voice ground on my ears like the heavy sound of an Ayleid sliding-wall.

I yelped in pain as he jerked me to one side by the hair, then stepped back, throwing me to the floor, releasing his handhold, looking both livid and cornered.

Tevyn's expression was not one I ever saw on his kindly face. I didn't know he could look so angry, so fierce. "_Out_!" He roared.

But Kathutet was already halfway gone, and not looking at Tevyn at all. Tevyn's spell – which would probably have thrown Kathutet from Nirn if it had hit – vanished halfway to the wall.

I let my face fall forward on one arm, my scalp throbbing with the pain of pulled hair, but more with the feeling of deepest shame.

"Ailirah, Ailirah," Tevyn said gently, scooping me up to a semi-sitting position, his shoulder effectively blocking my eyes, catching any tears that might somehow eke out. "I'm so sorry," he soothed, rubbing my back as my ghost shivered in the doorway.

The thought that I _need _my ghost flickered, manifesting as a garbled mumble. A moment later I felt the brush of breeze across the back of my neck.

You fetched Tevyn…didn't you?

"Ailirah…" Tevyn sounded slightly distressed himself.

Biting hard on my lip I pushed away from him, scooting back on the carpet, shaking my head, though I'm not surer what I was saying 'no' to. Don't look at me.

Tevyn looked absolutely stricken. "Ailirah, please," a spell appeared in the hand he extended towards me, glowing sedately white-blue in his hand, smooth as a river stone. "I am your friend. I do wish to help you. But I'm not the Dremora. I cannot make you do anything you don't wish to do. I do not wish to violate your trust."

Images of Martin swam before my eyes. Trust. Love. Two things he held dear, always….and now I've betrayed both.

_Shameless. Faithless. _

For what? A silver-tongued Dremora? What kind of person _am_ I? I'm...I'm supposed to be _better_ than that…aren't I?

_And a failure. _

I flopped forward, arms fastened tightly about my middle, tears finally streaming from screaming eyes.

"Ailirah, please," Tevyn's voice was barely above a hoarse whisper.

Looking up at him I shook my head, as my inner Dremora rolled her eyes. Stop it _just stop it_! "Don't deserve."

_...always too little, too late... _

I felt my ghost brush my back again, though this time there was magicka buzzing oddly in the movement of air, and I felt the way my mind clenched in upon itself release slightly, which elicited a sob of semi-relief.

"Ailirah…don't you know what that thing was?" Tevyn asked gently.

I nodded. A Dremora. All ambition, change and destruction…not so unlike myself…

My breeze brushed along my back again. I wish you were solid. I wish you were _real_.

"No, I don't think you do. Not really." Tevyn murmured. I felt his presence move a little closer, his empty hand touching the back of my head. I cringed, and my ghost brushed my back again. "Ailirah, this isn't your fault."

"Yes it is." I choked. Just tell me it's my fault. I'm too weak. I'm too stupid…

'_Unfaithful'_ buzzed in my ears.

If Martin were alive…I'd never have done it…

But he's not…

…it's no excuse.

"Now that's him." Tevyn cut across me. "He's still whispering in your ear, isn't he? The Dremora?"

No.

_Yes._

"How long, Ailirah? How long since he first tried to topple you? To corrupt your thoughts and mind?" Tevyn asked gently, hesitantly touching my hair.

"Almost six months." I managed to articulate.

"And no one knew?" Tevyn demanded.

"What was I to say?!" I exploded, straightening up, tripping on my nightdress before I could get to my feet, collapsing again in an ungainly heap, my ghost fluttering more aggrievedly.

This time, Tevyn apparently saw something move that shouldn't have, but his eyes moved from the flicker of motion uncaused by myself back to my face.

"What could I say? 'Hey, a Dremora just tried to seduce me'?" The words hurt to speak. "What does that say of me? I had someone back home, then…waiting for me…" I began to shake. "And now…now…" My vision blurred with unshed tears.

Tevyn sighed. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

"Why?" Thoughts moved brokenly through my head, whipping at high speed, the sharp edges of them tearing the softened goo of my mind as a whole.

"Because his poison has probably been leeching at you ever since that first meeting. Ailirah, please." He offered me the spell again. "I want to help you, but I can't, unless you will hear me. Which you can't do in this state. Please, as a friend. As a priest, I shall swear if you like, that this conversation won't leave this room."

"Swear."

"I swear, before my Lord Akatosh, that this conversation will remain between you and I. I will not speak its contents to any other creature, not even my own superiors within the church." Tevyn responded firmly.

I nodded, and feebly touched the spell. My arm felt like lead. A lethargy, mind-slowing, heart slowing, blissful lethargy settled over me, creeping up my arm, then through the rest of me.

"…You…whatever you are…" He grimaced at my ghost, perplexed.

"Ghost." I muttered stupidly, feeling the effects of the calm spell humming beneath my breastbone, resonating from my core. Numbly I reached for Martin's pendant…

Which no longer hung where it should.

"Shut the door, if you can." Tevyn instructed my ghost, which after a few tries managed to blow the door closed, before changing shape into the light and zooming to hover to one side.

Gleaming beneath it was my pendant, casually thrown away, though I'm sure _I_ didn't do it. I could never just throw it away. It's all I have of him.

Tevyn noticed, retrieved it, and slipped it carefully over my head, the cold disc making me shake with renewed self disgust and loathing. "Dremora are cunning creatures, Ailirah, no matter how much we like to paint them as rather stupid." He gathered me against him, much as one of my brothers might do. "We did not know you were being stalked by one."

"I don't unders…I asked…" Would Tevyn ward my room twice...or did my ghost do it? My head began to pound as I tried to understand how that was possible, finally giving up. Who cares?

"Of course you did, of course you did," Tevyn soothed, as if afraid I might somehow break his calming spell if I got worked up. Part of me wonders how many of his resources I just burned up. "As he meant you to. Just because the invasion is over, doesn't mean Mehrunes Dagon would just let you walk away unscathed. He's too single-minded for that."

"I wanted…" I stammered.

"Did you?" Tevyn asked gently. "Did you _really_? Or was it…you simply needed something to fill some gaping void…and seeing him this afternoon reminded you he would be able to do that? Or so you were meant to believe."

It's a blow to my pride. I said nothing, my ghost returning to blow softly against my shoulder. "But…_him_…" I looked upwards, unable to bring myself to speak Martin's name.

Tevyn shook his head. "Ailirah, you are grieving. And this Dremora – no, don't name him," Tevyn declared sharply, "knows that. And he knows you're not strong…" Tevyn's tone indicated it was a cheap move, even for a Dremora, to take advantage of such emotional frailty.

"It's been five months…" I choked. Getting on to six, and the pain is still so strong. I've gotten cynical...cynical and more sarcastic.

"Time heals all wounds, but not overnight. I accept you are still grieving. Deep love will bring deep grief – and I don't doubt that's what you had. But it has weakened you, as grief will. And this Dremora took advantage of that. A despicable trick, even for one of Dagon's flunkies." Tevyn added grimly, finally voicing what was so clearly on his mind.

"What do you know...of Dremora?" I want to believe him. But I don't want to let go. I feel..._trapped_. And all the while Kathutet's words, or words in his voice echoed in the back of my head, diseased things expanding voraciously, opportunistically to poison the whole.

"You don't think Ocato appointed me, because I have a kindly face and can make children eat their vegetables, now did you?" Tevyn asked gently, his tone inviting me to be amused at the joke. "I studied them, in my youth. Learned to deal with their victims. Your Martin was one, you know." he paused and when I looked up at him, red-eyed and pale-faced, he continued. "Brought to us half-dead, grief stricken by the loss of friends to some Daedra's pranks, guilt-ridden, confused. The average priest with no knowledge of the Daedra and their workings would not have been of much help to him, except to heal the body."

I found a spark of something like hope flickering in my chest.

"Prayer to the Nine, in their chapels – no, I know you mistrust their motives, that's not what we're discussing," Tevyn cut me off before I could protest. "Here, why don't we get you up off the floor?" Tevyn helped me stand, draped my dressing gown across my shoulders and sat me in my chair at the little table. He eyed the untouched bowl of fruit askance then produced a very tiny dagger – suited to cutting fruit or opening letters but not much else, and immediately began to cut an apple.

"Where was I? To heal the body, sometimes even afflictions of the soul. Daedra tend to show similar attention for body and soul, warping or twisting one or both. Very rarely do the wounds caused by Daedra run only skin deep. Even followers must be wary, or they find themselves twisted to their master's will. Captivated by poison words. Like with this Dremora, sweet subtle words whispered in a target's ear, weakening a target."

Captivating. That's the word. Captivating – you know what he's doing, you know it's dangerous, poisonous…but you go along with it. The choice to fight the captivation is so…hard. The delusion so welcome. At full strength a person might resist with some effort. But for those weakened...

"I don't doubt his ability to charm is rare, but it's not unheard of." Tevyn held out an apple slice. "Eat it."

"I don't want…"

"Ailirah."

I took the slice from his hand, sinking my teeth into the too-sweet flesh. It seemed to turn to ash in my mouth, making me grimace.

Tevyn wiped his hands on his robes, then touched my hair. Something cold seemed to seep into my skull, pooling in the base of my neck to seep along my spine. The icy feel of the spell sinking into my skin made me shake and shiver, a vivid impression of blue accompanying the magicka. "I don't know what he was spelling you for, Ailirah, but I think, now, all we have to deal with are words. No more evil whispers, augmented by whatever craft he possesses."

I felt something shift into place, like bones in the neck, a crane this way, a twist that, with a crackle and a pop you can feel, they realign. "It doesn't change the fact that…that I wanted him. Then and now." I couldn't look up from my lap when I said it, feeling the blush rise in my face.

"It's human nature to feel an attraction to things that are, perhaps, not the best for us," Tevyn said gently. "But the look on your face indicated his progresses were based on captivation, not true acceptance." He handed me another apple slice, which I wordlessly took, ignored, then when he cleared his throat, automatically nibbled on. "If there is any blame here, Ailirah, it is mine. I did not protect you as well as I meant to. I knew the likelihood was high Dagon and his minions wouldn't have given up on you. I didn't expect _this_. I should have. They're a crafty breed, just like their master."

I shook my head. "No, I refuse to believe myself blameless…"

Tevyn sighed. "Then call your great transgression overconfidence. I know things look bad now. But I promise you, without the Dremora's whispers in your ear – and I think that the spell I pulled off you might have augmented them – you will find the world is not so dark. Painful, yes. Will you grieve? Yes. But perhaps you will find things are not as terrible as they were of late."

"How come…how come no one noticed?" I asked, finishing the apple slice. How come _I _never noticed? I'm supposed to be _sensitive_ to this stuff.

"I have a theory," Tevyn nodded. "It has to do with…with the fact that you are…_touched _by the Deadlands in the first place. A very subtle, low-level, long term enchantment might go undetected, with people sensitive to such things assuming it was simply part of your aura. Possibly it only went into full effect once you began to weaken. I don't doubt we would have noticed, sooner or later…but who knows what could have happened?"

I did come back in a bad way...so I would not have noticed anything odd, because I attributed it to one too many trips to the Deadlands. So subtle...so _sneaky_..._that bastard_!

I felt myself begin to burn with anger. Thinking back, as clearly as I could…it was only while he was here, with me, without an audience that he didn't get a reaction of temper. When he could whisper carefully, or take advantage of whatever turmoil he sowed to begin with…I bit my lip. Hard.

It doesn't change the fact I would have slept with him. Would have probably enjoyed some part of it – the feeling of being held, touched by a living creature. Of having someone be stronger than me…

But it would not be in a healthy way. Since when did I get so pathetic? Yes, I ache. I scream from inside the gaping maw of loss and make cutting comments to try and keep the emptiness at bay…but that's no reason to just…just fall apart. It's one thing to die in a fight – _that_ I would welcome – but to…to let myself waste away. Wither and fade like a flower out of season…

That's not on.

Kathutet, you'd better stay the hell out of my way, or I'm going to run you through. Again. I mean it. No pretty words. No warm caresses. Just cold death.

--A--


	82. Chapter 82

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Eighty-Two

--A--

I dreamed. It wasn't even a real dream, I don't think. Just the sense of being asleep, keenly aware of slow, human breath nearby, and the knowledge it should be _him_, Martin, as if he lay with his back to me, sound asleep_. _It's a dream. But compared with the nightmares it's a slice of bliss. I don't know if it's something my own ravaged mind conjured up, or if it's my ghost messing around in my head. Somehow. I've had the smell of roses in my nose all night, but the sleep is welcome, quiet, and fulfilling.

I managed to flop an arm, expecting yet knowing better than to expect to find a warm shoulder, or to brush fingers across his back. My hand hit the cold empty bed beside me, the dream-illusion shattering. Looking up at the ceiling my fingers clenched the fine linen sheets (I hate the feel of silk when I sweat – and nightmares bring on cold sweats. It gets all sticky and clingy and icky).

I'll decide to feel grateful. More than that, it's time to get up. Gray light's peeping through the chinks in my curtains, and I've got a long way to ride today. I got the impression my ghost was still in the room, dozing somewhere. Quietly dressing – and self-consciously keeping my face to a wall as I did so, I slipped out.

No state breakfasts today. I'm in a hurry.

--A--

"Leaving already?" Tevyn demanded gently from the stable door. His careworn face told plainly his rest last night was not restful, or long enough in duration. I'm surprised he' sup – I left a note for him telling him where I'd gone and why – the Imperial City because I have things to do – and that he was to keep any crises from boiling over in my absence. He's very good at averting disaster.

"I have to go back." Back to the Priory of the Nine, find out what the ghost-knights know. Any squirm of embarrassment over my last exit died in the face of the incontrovertible fact this _is_ my job, whether I like it or not (and I don't like it one bit). And I'm unaccustomed to letting my job go to hell because I wasn't doing it properly. It's not about me. It is – once again - about the thousands, millions who will suffer if I fail. It's the same motivation I used last time…but without _him_. I'm on my own.

"Also, Ocato will want an accounting, then I have work to do." I finished with a shrug. I feel empty, but no longer withered and weak. I feel cold, but not drowning in it. I'm bleeding to death from a wound no one can heal – but that's not what going to kill me in the end. I refuse to go out that way. And it feels _good_ to have _purpose_ again. I'm a creature of action. A sword to be pointed at an enemy.

I can't live without Martin. But I _can_ exist with the motivation of a job to do.

"These relics won't find themselves, and if there's no one else yet," I flung Mori's saddle over his back with expert practice. I've almost forgotten how _much_ I used to enjoy riding through Colovia. "I'll have to do it. I can take a hint." Turning I found Tevyn holding out Mori's bridle. "Thanks. Besides…I feel better today." Relatively speaking.

Better is an understatement. I may be dying inside, but at least I feel like I can go out fighting. Damn Kathutet – I'd like to make lime-seared Dremora-chunks out of him. How long has he been twisting icky fingers inside my head? Too long in any case. "Damn Dremora, he better hope he steers clear of me, or I'm going to…to…tie him up, put him in a pink dress and tie _ribbons on his horns_." Tevyn chuckled at this, some of the tiredness dispelling.

I'm _serious, _not cracking jokes. Could a Dremora live something like that down?

Better yet - _Wabbajack_! Oi, Roge, I want to borrow Wabbajack…

Ooh. Or I could just _tell_ Roge about Kathutet…he'd have four bearlike half-Nords out for his blood.

Nah - I like the humiliation thing better. Or I suppose, as he's on my shitlist for life, I could do the pink dress or rabbit thing, _then_ turn him over to my brothers. The possibilities begin to boggle.

"…Yes, you can come too," I muttered as my ghost, curiously absent, fluttered in, as though berating me for not waking him before I left. I'm fairly sure this ghost is – was – a him.

"Do be careful, Ailirah."

"Tevyn, you pointed out my greatest failing was overconfidence," leading Mori out of his stall, I stood facing the priest. "I've made corrections. If those bastards can sneak upon me, they'll deserve to. And I swear," I held up a hand to forestall whatever he might interrupt with, though Tevyn rarely interrupts when someone else is talking, "If I see Kathutet again, I'll run him through before he can say _a word_." My expression hardened. "I owe him that much."

"Very well…" Shaking his head Tevyn touched my shoulder. "If you see _it _again," It doesn't take a genius to figure out he meant Kathutet, "it won't be within the confines of your home."

"You checked the double wards?" I asked.

"_Double_ wards?" Tevyn looked mildly surprise. "I warded your rooms, yes, but I'm sufficiently accomplished at such things not to need a second array...why did you think there were two sets?" Tevyn frowned.

"Well. _He _said there were," I shrugged. "Doesn't matter...thanks, though."

Tevyn nodded, thenlooked around, as if for my ghost. "You're sure that..._thing _...is benign?" He asked, unable to see the haunting.

"Pretty sure. He fetched you, didn't he?" I asked quietly.

"It was strange," Tevyn admitted. "I was reading, ill at ease, and then something across the room knocked over. I thought perhaps an open window…" he shook his head. "Then I worried for you, and went to investigate. Apparently a priest's guts are still good for something beyond digestion."

I nodded, but didn't smile. I'm not that cured. But the look on his face last night has me wondering now if he doesn't have a good summon weapon spell hidden behind that smile. Patting his shoulder, I swung up onto Mori's back, the stallion prancing, eager to be off, shaking his silvery mane.

When Ocato insisted on giving me a horse, I refused a white one (white is for Martin, he looks better on the white horse), I didn't _want_ a black one (classical bad guys ride black horses), or a paint (reminds me of poor Prior Maborel). I was being difficult on purpose, but then Mori showed up and…well. He's a good horse – fleet of foot, if nothing like his namesake, a dappled gray.

He's also dumb as a box of rocks, and would rather charge than run away. But he can also jump a hay wagon if need be. "What did that Bosmer want?" I asked, remembering Kathutet's handler.

"Seeing you nearly claw his Dremora to a bloody mass put it out of his mind. I imagine he wished you to turn some of Kvatch's revenues to some philanthropic event." Tevyn answered – which is his way of saying the Bosmer's a con artist. He's sharp at spotting them, even if I still need a bit of practice.

"If the city has revenues, it's thanks to your good leadership…so thank you." And yes, I'm sure he can find excellent ways to pump said revenues back into the city.

"You'll thank me better by staying alive, to stay at this city's head, Countess. Economics and rebuilding I can manage. Inspiration, and issues of the martial sort are best left to you." Tevyn answered.

"I'll be back when I can." I answered dutifully, meanwhile, we're off.

Kicking Mori in the sides, he trotted forward out of the stable, picking up the pace of his own accord, so I had to reign him in to keep him from galloping off at full tilt. It's a long ride to the Priory, then to the Imperial City.

--A--

Chancellor Ocato was almost invisible in his small, private garden, kneeling amongst his irises, trowel in one hand, his weight resting on the other. It's such an odd place to find the High Chancellor of the Elder Council, crawling around in the dirt. "You really do grow rises," I announced, looking at the glass roof. A place like this oozes magicka – the only way he'd get irises in the colder months. Still, it's a nice setup – not a glasshouse, but definitely a protected, well-magicked space.

"Indeed – would you pass me that watering can?" Ocato asked, motioning towards the implement in question.

I found the article and walked it over, admiring the stately flowers.

"You look better," Ocato announced, peering up at me from the feet of a blue-gray iris, which reminds me strongly of stormclouds.

"Just resolute." I answered, shrugging. "This is pretty." Touching one of the petals, the slip of slightly-raised veins rose and fell beneath my fingers.

"One of my personal accomplishments," Ocato's pride didn't stay hidden. "Though I must say, I prefer the black." He pointed with his trowel. Ah, the gardener's obsession with the perfect black blossom. This one had a faintly blue sheen to it, though, which reminded me of something...Dagmar's hair. A funny shade of blue black, only the flower is darker.

I can't believe she's an _assassin_.

Following his gaze I found the single black iris, placed in a heap of red ones, vivid as blood from a black heart. The imagery touched something, which moved uneasily like a sleeping bear in response to it. "So, I assume this is some sort of payback for me hauling you out of your home at all hours for reports?" Ocato continued, scuttling forward to do something to another stand of flowers – these a peculiar ice-green, but despite their odd color, they smell heavenly.

Filling Ocato in took less time than usual. I should bug him in the garden more often – he's easier to get along with. Maybe it's the lack of official robes and symbols of authority and the endless waffle of idiots.

So far, my leads for the Relics – which the Knights were happy to give over, with a certain amount of 'I told you so' smirking – are fairly solid, but incomplete. Ranging from Chorrol to Leyawiin, only six of the artifacts are accounted for at the moment: the boots (outside the Imperial City, which is my next stop), the Mace (in Leyawiin), the gloves (in Chorrol) and the shield, (Fort Bulwark near the border with Black Marsh).

As it turns out, Sir Berich from Amiel's journal wasn't the only one who made disastrous mistakes, unbefitting a proper knight. That's the problem with these crusader types, they forget they're only human and grow into the idea they're more than human, or they shift to the other end of the spectrum and wind up the depressed holy warriors of cliché.

Hmm.

If anything the knights are very forthcoming about their flaws – especially the ones which led to the loss of the relics in the first place. Sir Casimir, for instance, who once held the gloves, lost them when he smacked – and killed – a beggar, _in the Chapel_ in Chorrol. Stendarr's chapel, no less.

I find it odd I never heard about these relics before now.

"I've heard this story of Umaril before…but not quite the way you related it. Did you really read that somewhere?" Ocato asked, frowning.

"No, it was paraphrased by someone at the Arcane University…why?" I asked.

"Oh," Ocato shrugged. "I suppose it must be a human retelling. The merish version differs somewhat. I suppose the biggest difference is the fact Pelinal slaughtered a great deal of people to get to Umaril. Umaril himself didn't go looking for a fight with Pelinal, until the cries of his people became so great he could no longer ignore them. Though guile and cunning failed him in the face of Pelinal's battle-madness, Pelinal fell through his own pride, for he had the bad form – and the great foolishness – to slander his dying enemy in the hearing of said enemy's allies." Ocato finished delicately. "They in turn went mad and fell upon him."

"Sounds like a tale where people see what they want to see. I begin to wonder – if there was no hero that day. Only two proud, cunning warriors out for blood." I answered, mulling this over. He seemed like a zealot to me, when I spoke with his ghost. History is written by the victors. It's something I always try to bear in mind when reading history books.

But right now, Umaril's the one killing people.

But haven't _you_ killed Daedric priests before?

Yes. Yes I have, and we'll leave it at that. I never said I was blameless. But I'd do it again…and come up with a better plan for the events towards the end of the tale.

"What would you have done differently?" Ocato asked, though not in any way accusatory, oddly echoing my thoughts, though perhaps not the same page of them.

"I don't know. Ask me when this is over." I answered. "I'll be off then." Pushing myself off the hardened earth I dusted my trousers off.

"So what is it you need from me?" Ocato stood up, an abrupt appearance of the High Chancellor in the elven gardener.

I didn't need to ask what he meant. "Keep the Council off my back and out of my way." I answered bluntly. "Don't let them _near _my investigations, you answer their questions. Otherwise I'll be tied up in bullshit meetings for the rest of my life. They can debate and discourse as much as they want once the threat of Umaril is over."

"And what level of threat should I prepare for?" Ocato crossed his arms. "I'd ask about the Imperial Army, but we don't know where he is."

"I don't think it matters." I answered. "Let's…I don't think Umaril would care about your armies, Chancellor. Forget the army for now. I…" I stopped. "Let me research. If it appears the need for the army is real, I will let you know," I finished. My suspicions say forget the army. But I've learned about contingencies since my younger days.

Ocato nodded, his expression drawn. I can only imagine what it'll take to keep the Elder Council from hauling me up in front of them to give a full, detailed accounting, before they begin to argue the best way to deal with the problem. With the throne empty, it's amazing they get anything done. The Emperor wouldn't need a scepter so much as a horsewhip to keep some of these goons on track.

Of course, I'm a little biased against the Elder Council to begin with, so maybe they're not as moronic as I sometimes like to think.

"Do be careful, Ailirah. Things sound very…" Ocato shook his head, rubbing his chin absently, as a human might finger his beard.

"Unstable. Yes. I'm at a loss as to why Meridia isn't interfering. Daedric Princes like to do that."

Ocato nodded in agreement.

I have my theories, but they're just that: theories. All I'll say is, there seem to be a very many ghosts hanging on the coattails of this venture, and they have been for a very long time. And Meridia doesn't like ghosts. "I'll be careful." Turning to stride off, Ocato sighed. I stopped walking.

"I'd wish you luck, but you seem to prefer to make your own."

"And here I thought you didn't understand me at all." I answered, but rather gently.

"I don't most of the time." Ocato shook his head.

"It's very easy. I'm a sword, Ocato. You point me at the enemy, and let the killing end do its job."

"The more's the pity. Do what you have to do, Ailirah. Consider it your official mandate." Ocato turned back to his irises, plainly indicating this depressing talk was over.

Good. I have work to do. And any and all Dremora better keep the hell out of my way.

--A--

Author's Notes: for those who missed it "Mori" is an abbreviation or diminutive for "Morihaus" the bull and Pelinal's companion, of sorts.


	83. Chapter 83

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Eighty-Three

--A--

"_I can tell you of the boots, if you'd like." One of the knights – Sir Juncan - offered, as I stood silent, trying to order my thoughts like a housewife might card wool._

"_Yes, please." It's a good a start as any – working from the feet up. The helm and cuirass seemed to glow and shine subtly in their niche, which made me increasingly uncomfortable. Especially as, between my leaving and return, the cuirass re-shaped itself. It's obviously made for a shorter person than the armor stand, and has the appropriate shape, so as to fit comfortably for a woman. _

_Which it did not when I first laid eye on it. I like my chainmail – such fancy armor has nothing to do with me. _

"_The Boots are safeguarded by Kynareth herself." Juncan explained. "Are you familiar with Kynareth?" he asked, half hopefully._

"_Our lady Kyne, much beloved of my father's people," I answered, using her Nordic name. Much beloved by my brother Brutus, too. "Open air and wild lands. I know of her." I also know – vaguely – where to find her…it's not a chapel, and 'shrine' usually refers to Daedra. It's sort of tucked away near the Imperial City, out in the woods. I've gone with Brutus a couple of times, I can probably find it. Maybe getting lost has its benefits. _

"_You must be tested, and prove yourself worthy to acquire them." Juncan continued, though he eyed me, as if expecting me to show my temper. _

_I merely sighed. Everyone seems to want to test my mettle this week. Sooner or later, I'm simply going to run out. Then they get the Dremora. Discarding the thought, I turned to face Juncan. "Tested? How?" Oddly enough, when left to themselves, the knights don't wander. In fact, they stand around like pillars in the Undercroft, heads bent, as if in prayer, or misery. There's too much similarity between their existence and mine – the biggest difference is I'm still solid. _

_Strange…I find myself distracted form my own empty soul. I feel…a very strong sense of pity for these lost souls. If it's bad for me, to live with my mistakes and my failures…how much worse is it to be dead, and still exist to mourn them? Without living hands to act, always with the curse of consciousness. _

"_I cannot tell you exactly how to find the Boots," Juncan responded, "for that will be up to Kynareth. I can tell you to seek out her priests, though."_

"_I know where her shrine is," I answered softly. "West of the Imperial city, yes?" _

"_Yes." Juncan agreed, but he did not question how I knew, if, as I'd implied, I was not one of her followers. "You will find them there, and they'll tell you what you need to know."_

"_Right." I sighed. What was it like, your great failure? All of you? I'm too well-bred to ask but…I do wonder…_

"_Yeah, it's what they don't tell you about being a knight," Juncan said quietly. "When you fail…you fail. And when you fall…you hit the ground hard." _

"_Why did you just say that?" I blinked at him, picking out features as best I could. _

_He shrugged. "You didn't have to ask, your face said it all." _

"_I always was a bad liar." I shook my head again._

--A--

Mori's and my breaths rose in cold puffs of white from our mouths as we picked our way through the wilderlands southwest of the Imperial City. No longer on the road, I'd slipped off Mori's back, opting to lead him by the reins rather than have him pick the way for both of us. Also, this part of the countryside is full of wild creatures. Brutus says they rarely attack, near Kynareth's shrine, but I've already fended off one wolf, I'm not going to risk a run-in with a bear. I want to be on my own two feet.

It was nearly dark before I saw the head of Kynareth's effigy, hidden behind a tree and some underbrush, on a rolling hillside. Unlike the Daedra, who tend to have very fine statues, pristinely carved, with proud, _sometimes _attractive faces, Kynareth's statue is glaringly different. The stone is of the local stuff, not the whitish stuff the Daedra prefer for their likenesses. Bones of the earth, Brutus mentioned once. Her solemn, strong-featured face, a Nordic face almost, gazed into the hillside, easily the most intricate part of her statue. The roughness of the stone gave the illusion, in the poor twilight, of cloth.

"Greetings child," a middle-aged woman, carrying a green magelight, greeted me. "Welcome to the Chapel of Kynareth, in which you have walked since the moment you stepped out of doors."

It began to rain, a hazy drizzle with the ability to, given enough time, soak one to the skin. The fat drops pattered in the darkness, bouncing off the leaves of trees, or releasing the scent of pine. The smell struck me as oddly healthy, refreshing. Though perhaps this isn't so surprising – my recent ventures involving 'damp' and 'wet' were all in places I'd like to soon forget.

"We gather here to pay tribute to all of the blessings she bestows upon us." The priestess did not even bother to pull up her hood against the drizzle, rather, letting it plaster her hair. Movement in the trees confirmed what it expected –the devotees here didn't huddle about their statue, as Daedra worshippers, or indeed Chapel-goers were wont to do – they wandered the wilds in solitude.

I also took this as a hint for me to pay proper respect, so I knelt touched my forehead, then stood up again, Mori whickering as my movements pulled on his reins. "I've come here in search of the Boots of the Crusader," I announced quietly, feeling the rain seeping so quickly through my clothes. Unusually quickly, or maybe, it's simply the fact that _I don't like the cold_.

And the year promises a long, cold winter, and a cold spring which may or may not give way to real summer. Or maybe this is simply what I expect.

"Many have come, seeking the boots over the years. You are in luck then…are you a knight?" The priestess furrowed her brow.

"Not really. I'm on the business of knights, though."

"I…see." It's obvious she doesn't, but thankfully, she didn't question me an further on the knighthood count. I'm also glad she doesn't recognize me in the dim light. I like the anonymity.

The Imperial Champion is not a knight, technically, but a custodian with a mandate to protect the Empire. Usually by protecting the Emperor, or running his errands. But, as ours is…

"Regardless," The priestess shook her head. "If you seek the holy relic Kynareth has bestowed upon the world, then you must prove yourself worthy." I looked up at Kynareth's soaked stone face, then nodded in assent.

"What do you know about this test?" I don't think she knows, honestly. This sort of thing, no one knows, until the supplicant shows up. Still, I've been wrong before now.

"I cannot say what it will be, for I do not know. Kynareth herself will decide in what manner you shall be tested. At most, I can direct you to the Grove of Trials, and remind you to heed Kynareth's teachings: fear and respect Nature and all her Creations." The priestess tilted her face upward, as if in reverence to the falling rain.

I looked away from both Kynareth and the priestess, feeling unease rise up in my chest. This is a job for someone a whole lot more devout than I am. Is it some perversity of fate, that the only so-called hero available, is one who's having a crisis of faith? When the quest itself _is _essentially, the path of the devout?

Well, I suppose worst of it is, I'll get eaten by a bear or something and Umaril will…

_No_. I'm not starting down _that _path again. If the Nine want a champion, they'll either have to make do with the one they apparently want, or let the _real_ crusader show up in time to save me from being eaten. "May I leave my horse?" I asked, after blowing water for my lips.

"Of course, I shall watch him, if you like." The priestess held out a hand for Mori's reins, which I gave to her. Mori looked from me, to the priestess, and then went back to nibbling on the grass. "The Grove of Trials is up that way. A clearing amongst large stones. You can't miss it, even in the dark."

No, I won't miss it. Especially not in the dark.

My haunting blew – oddly warm this time – against my neck as I approached the ring of stones. "You can't come, can you?" I asked, stopping. The heavy silence in the air answered my question. "It's all right. Wait here for me?" I looked round until my haunting took on the appearance of a violet magelight, circling twice about my head, then hovering in place, as if waiting expectantly.

"Thank you." The little light trembled, then swept around me again, warm air moving against my cold face, carrying the slightest hint of sweet roses. I'm still at a loss as to why an apparition I perceive as male smells like pretty roses.

I'm not complaining – growing up with four big hairy brothers? The roses are fine. Preferable.

Well and truly alone – except for my inner Dremora – I slipped between two of the massive boulders. The clearing allowed a view of the clouded sky. My darkvision let me see fairly clearly – not as well as with nighteye, but I don't think I'm looking for gold coins in amongst rubble. I wish I knew what this test was.

Kynareth, the patron of the great outdoors, guardian of animals and all naturally occurring beasts – even the ones which'll take a chunk out of man or mer as soon as say 'rowr'.

That is _not_ the mentality I need right now. The anticipatory silence grated on my nerves. I hate waiting. The dark and the rain made no improvement to my mood, and full dark fell before I heard anything that even hinted at a test. The pitch-black lay so thick and profound over the clearing I had no choice but to light my magelight, letting it hover ivory over the clearing, casting thick shadows. Sheltering in the lee of one of the boulders – still careful to remain inside the clearing, as I obvious haven't been tested, and to walk out will no doubt disqualify me – I heard the sounds of something lumbering through the undergrowth.

No sooner than I heard the sounds then the _biggest bear _I ever saw in my life burst into the clearing. I screamed. Ivory teeth in a great mouth glinted in the red maw, the roar almost deafening, surely drowning out my scream. I swear the _ground is shaking_. I reached to summon Frostreaver, and my armor as the bear raised paw the span of my shoulders.

…_I'll get eaten by a bear or something…_

… _fear and respect Nature and all her Creations…_

Frostreaver appeared in my hand. I cast it away as the bear swiped a paw at me – claws just missing my chest as I fell backwards. Desperation gave way to speed. The bear roared as he swept at me again, his claws bouncing off the rock against which he'd backed me, leaving glittering white gashes in the wet grey stone.

With a burst of speed and the strength born of years of hard work and demanding labor I managed to scramble up onto one of the large boulders, feet slipping a little. The bear charged at the stone, which wobbled, bucking wildly under my feet.

The bear staggered back, roaring its displeasure at the tasty Nord-morsel now balanced precariously as a cat just out of reach.

My eyes flickered about, and as the bear reared onto his hind legs, toddling towards the stone with the intent of pulling me off it, I jumped to another stone, a little higher up, landing in a crouch, curling down like a sea star on a rock. The bear caught a trailing edge of my cloak in his teeth, pulling on it. The garment cut into my throat as I struggled to maintain my grip on the rock, groping with a free hand to undo the clasp.

My cold-numbed fingers found the metal, and I slid back as the bear, growling with pleasure at his own cleverness, continued to pull.

The clasp popped loose, the pin jabbing me as it sprang free. The bear's growl of pleasure turned into another roar of dismay as I hefted myself further out of his reach. Rubbing my throat, my breath rose in quick puffs, my hair plastering flat against my head. Water dripped into my ears and under my collar as I watched the bear prowl and pace, eying me greedily.

The bear was on his hind feet again.

Looking about I found another rock –this one larger than the others, which might make it harder for him to get to me. Still…

I jumped, and missed, not having enough momentum to jump high enough. I clung to the rock, but only until the bear, roaring gleefully swept a paw at me.

Saved only by the narrowest margin, the claws did not rake my back. The bear did, however, dislodge me.

Hitting the ground bone-jarringly hard I looked left and right, for some means of escaping death. It's amazing how, even when the spirit is broken, human instinct remains the same: _stay alive_. Frostreaver glittered nearby. A quick roll foiled the bear's next sweep, which spattered mud across me, leaving ugly gouges in the earth. Frostreaver was in arms' reach. If I can get it I can stop this thing…

…_I'll get eaten by a bear or something…_

… _fear and respect Nature and all her Creations…_

Instead of reaching for Frostreaver, I screamed again, covering my face with my arms, waiting for the blow.

My mind screamed: _Don't let this thing eat me!_ Though the thought was directed loud and clear at Kynareth. It's her beastie, after all.

The word resolved itself in sounds I didn't recognize right away, with turned out to be panicky, gasping sobs coming from myself. No teeth. No claws sinking in to my defenseless body. Lowering my arms, opening my eyes I found the bear sitting some feet away looking oddly bewildered, and nowhere near as big as it was. In fact, it was a normal if quite well fed bear.

Panting, my chest aching from the beating and the heavy breathing, I sat up hesitantly, first propping myself on my elbows, then sitting up to scuttle away from the bear. It yawned, scratched an ear with a hind foot, then got to his feet, his winter fat rippling and bouncing almost comically under his…

Wait a minute…panic gave way to intelligence. _Bears hibernate_. He shouldn't be awake…looking upwards, squinting into the rain I mouthed wordlessly. A low rumble, a gentler parody of the bear's deafening roars drew my attention. One of the boulders, the one upon which I'd tried to take refuge, the one the bear's blow had knocked me from had given way, revealing a cavern, the entry to which gave off a healthy green-gold glow.

Numbly I got to my feet, my bruised throat aching as if I'd just wept my heart empty, shock making me stupid and slow. Ignoring Frostreaver, ignoring the cloak, my eyes remained fixed on the green light. The cavern itself smelled of living things, green things, but not of wet as the forest outside did. Despite the still air, despite the fact it was, until a moment ago, sealed, if I didn't know better, it think I was outside.

The short tunnel down gave way to a room, about the size of a bedroom. Trees inexplicably grew and rustled.

I screamed again as a giggling spriggan jumped out, gracefully, bending and twisting in some sort of mad dance like a willow. Another laugh heralded another spriggan bouncing out of the underground undergrowth.

I've never had a good experience involving a spriggan – they're like clannfear, always after your eyes…but after the bear, I'll take the…the hint...

The sudden jumping motions made sense, in a blinding moment of clarification. This was no prelude to attack. They were playing tag – or something similar – by their own rules. Edging forward, the spriggan continued to ignore me, in favor of their game. Ahead, on a low rough-hewn stone table, stood the boots. Boots far too small for a man's feet.

My hand stopped short of picking the boots up. The spriggans still giggled, but they'd stopped moving. Turning I found them standing behind me, watching with interest. They looked from me, to the boots, then back. It's like being a child again, fishing in the cookie jar. My hand closed over one of the relics. The spriggans continued to watch…all the while as I edged towards the clearing.

Outside the rain had stopped, and while the air still hung heavy and cold, the moon shone brightly overhead, peering out through the broken clouds. Reclaiming my cloak, I put the boots dumbly in my pack, and, stumbling for weariness, the strain of pain and fear heavy on me, I made my way back to Kynareth's shrine.

Point taken. I will _never_ joke about getting eaten by bears ever again. Especially not when asking for favors.

And when my haunting inevitably tries to heal the damage to my throat, I'll have him leave it alone. I deserve it.

--A--


	84. Chapter 84

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Eighty-Four

--A--

The balmy air of Leyawiin persisted even in the winter months, but the place was full of unseasonable fog. The air also hung heavy, vaguely noisome as clouds brewed overhead. It's eerie the way the mist writhes and flails about my knees. Sometimes I think I see things in the mist, as if I'm not the only person walking down the street. Maybe they're just my own personal ghost…or maybe I'm imagining things.

The Leyawiin Guildhall is always bustling and noisy – not the least because of the half-Nord bearmen living there. This time, the noise is from Brutus and Roge shouting as they play. Must be a slow week.

The next thing I knew, Brutus came swinging around a doorway with something under his arm. "Ail…" he didn't get any further, because Roge came sailing through the air with a triumphant roar, tackling him.

They crashed into a small end table – crushing it to splinters – and fighting over a helmet which Brutus had under his arm.

"What is all the…oh, hello Lirah," Julius stepped past our brothers – still scuffling and bickering - to give me a hug. He didn't even spare a glance for their scuffle, Jules' way of saying he's not impressed and wishes they'd get up off the floor and act like grown men.

"Hey Jules…wow. It's like I never left," I remarked dryly.

"It's wonderful to see you." Jules announced warmly. "Don't let these idiots make you think otherwise." He huffed a sigh, rolling his eyes.

"Where's…"

"Markos?" Jules led me up to his office. "Markos is doing a job for Countess Carvain. She found leads to another artifact." Sitting down across from Jules, I sagged in my chair.

"Ailirah!" Jules' tone sharpened. "What happened to your throat?!" Jules jumped out of his chair, knocking it over in his shock and haste.

"It's okay," I waved feebly. "Just a reminder to mind my manners."

"_Ailirah_! It looks like you were nearly strangled! How is that okay?"

Opening one baleful eye I glowered, though I also rubbed gently at the injury, massaging the still-bruised flesh. "We had a talk about my life, your life, and the fact they're not one and the same," I reminded him quietly. I appreciate the concern, truly, but I'm not letting him slip back into bad habits. "Where're Bellona and Einar?"

"Einar's home. Bellona…" Jules sighed, righting his chair so he could throw himself into it. "She's keeping an eye on the Chapel of Zenithar. She…she was really broken up when she heard about Dibella's Chapel. I told her if she wanted to take time to go…but she said it was better for her to do what she could to aid survivors. That means the local Chapel." Jules concluded. "You know her."

Nodding, I crossed my arms.

"Word is you're investigating that mess." Jules fidgeted with papers on his desk, organizing and reorganizing.

With a sigh, I nodded again. "I am."

"They say there's something big on the horizon, and you're recruiting knights. Trying to stop it."

"Word travels fast." Well, I suppose I should have expected as much. Nothing stays secret in the Imperial City, everyone talks, and even what the Elder Council says sometimes trickles down to the average citizenry. I shall be grateful it didn't trickle any faster. Else I might find myself beating back a plague of people wanting to play knight with no concept of what it means to fight the good fight.

You make sacrifices. You bleed and weep. You lose the people dearest to you. It's not like in the old tales. Maybe that's why the old tales are always embellished.

"I'm _not_ recruiting knights. But Bellona has the right idea. This is in confidence." Standing up, I waited until Jules nodded. "The Dibellite priests were killed by an entity known as Umaril the Un..

"Him I've heard of." Jules blinked. "How can he still be alive?"

"Have you?" This is news to me.

"He was killed by Pelinal Whitestrake, before the Ayleids killed Pelinal." Jules looked surprised. "Hence my surprise at his ability to wreak havoc."

That seems to be all the tales agree upon.

"You should ask Modryn about it, if you get up to Chorrol." Jules inked a quill and began to doodle, his bad habit. It looks as though he's ignoring you, but he's really not. He needs something to do with his hands, to maintain attentiveness. I fidget. Jules doodles.

He's got more skill than Uncle Modryn, incidentally, until you ask him to color the doodles in. "Anyway, you said Umaril killed the Dibellite clergymen?"

"Or his minions. They say he's got Meridia's Aurorans at his beck and call." My skin prickled. Great – more humanoid Daedra. I don't know if they're as bad as Dremora, but I certainly intend to find out, if opportunity arises.

"You mean you haven't seen any?" Jules frowned.

"Weird, huh? I get in Mehrunes Dagon's way and he's got Dremora coming after me…" I managed to avoid adding 'six months after his ass got kicked', "I start harassing Umaril's venture and Meridia doesn't lift a finger. Of course, she's not helping either…" I'm actually fairly grateful. I've seen what a Daedric Prince with a grievance can do.

"How are you holding up?" Jules asked.

"I've got work to do. You know me. It's good that Roge can horse around like that…" For awhile Roge healed very slowly, then sort of picked up speed and he's back on missions. Fairly easy missions, but nonetheless, missions.

The door burst open. I shrieked and nearly spitted Roge, who tumbled backwards, yelping, into Brutus to avoid Frostreaver's tip.

"_You idiots_!" Jules roared, slamming his fist on his desk. "Get out of my office! No – out!" He barked, pointing. White faced, tight-lipped, Jules displayed a burst of temper none of the other three of us are used to seeing.

Roge yelped, and Brutus hauled him out, looking startled himself.

Panting with fright, throat aching from the yell and the sudden reaction to a loud crashing noise, I pried my fingers off Frostreaver's grip. "Sorry." I managed hoarsely, my haunting quickly moving to try and soothe me.

"No, I told those idiots _not_ to play around like that when you're here." Jules looked at me. "You've been through enough, you should at least feel safe _here_." He grumbled, for a moment looking many, many years younger than he actually is.

"I do, Jules. I really do." Walking over to stand beside him, I reached up to hook my fingers around his shoulder. Jules draped a heavy arm across my neck, and gently tightened his grip.

"It's good to have you home."

"For the little time I'm here…it's good to be home." I agreed. I closed my eyes to block out Jules' doodle. A faceless girl with curly hair, arms wrapped around the neck of a fierce, equally faceless dragon. He probably doesn't even realize the significance.

"Ailirah – anything you need for this investigation that I can do – men, supplies, you name it – just ask. Whatever it is, I'll get it for you. No questions asked."

I nodded. This is his way of apologizing for not believing me, when I told him I was doing something important, but couldn't give him the details. He's said he's sorry, now he's backing words with actions. "I thought you'd say that. Send the local chapters to keep an eye on the Chapels. The attack on Dibella's chapel was the first."

"If they're not already doing it, they'll be at it by sundown. Excuse me."

"I'm heading for the Chapel of Zenithar. I'll come back tonight, if I can."

Jules smiled, nodded, and vanished to get the messages sent.

Releasing Frostreaver, I followed him down the stairs and back out into the balmy afternoon, too dark for this time of day.

--A--

Bellona knelt at the small shrine of Dibella, hands clasped, murmuring softly. Unwilling to interrupt her prayers, I simply hung back. I noticed two things as I edged towards the side, so she would see me in her peripheral vision when she finished. Firstly, on her right shoulder glinted a brooch, a spray of lilies. At one time, she would have worn something similar in her hair.

Years and years ago, before she married Einar, Bellona was a member of Dibella's Order of the Lily. I suppose they might fall under the classification of knights, temple-knights dedicated to preserving beauty, through force of arms if need be. I always thought they should be Dibella's Roses – beautiful, but with thorns to protect themselves. The second thing of note, were the rapiers she wore. Older, the luster still hasn't faded – and again the motif of lilies worked into the hand guards is a telling one.

Bellona may fight smart, and she may do so with a heavy Daedric staff. She's very good at it, and can teach anyone how to use a staff, or staff-like weapon. However, her art, her truest at-one-with-the-weapon weapon, are the dual rapiers. Hence why she used them at Bruma, hence why she's wearing them now.

"Lirah." Bellona got to her feet a little stiffly.

I strode forward and hugged her. "Mother," I murmured.

"Hello love. Julius said you were investigating the murders. Any leads?"

I stepped back for Bellona. The lines around her eyes and mouth showed more starkly in her face than ever before, and dark circles were appearing. "It's very strange," Bellona smiled, tracing my face with her fingers. "I ask the Dibella for aid…and she sends my own daughter."

Martin said something along the same lines, once: I asked the gods for help, and they sent you_._

"Do you know of the Mace of the Crusader?" I asked.

Bellona nodded. "There was a man here, not long ago, looking for it. I overheard him questioning the priests…"

At this a door somewhere in the chapel opened, then thudded closed. Voices murmured in the recesses.

"Come on, we'll speak to the priests…would you like me to go with you?" Bellona offered.

"Please."

"Will you tell me what happened to your throat?" Bellona asked mildly.

I swallowed. It hurt. "I uh…I had a run-in with a bear, actually."

"In winter?"

"In winter," I answered. "It's all right, it doesn't hurt much…"

"It's you!"

I jumped, knocking into Bellona, who reached up to steady me. Wow, I'm _really _jumpy today.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you!" The Imperial gushed, eyes bugging. "I just…it's _you_! The one rebuilding the Knights of the Nine, the Gatewalker herself!" He bowed promptly.

Damn. News travels so fast these days. I've got to talk to Ocato about what 'discretion' means. He can pass it on to other idiots who don't know. Bellona gave me a look indicating I should be polite, no matter how off balance I was. "Um…thank you…but I'm not…I am just a servant of the Nine." I inclined my head slightly, unsure of what he wanted from me. The words cost me something to say, but whatever problems I might have with their apparent lack of…my throat began to throb painfully. Well. My personal problems are just that. Personal. "What can I do for you?"

"My name is Carodus Oholin. Like you, I am a servant of the Nine. Specifically, of Zenithar." He straightened up, looking over me, though his expression grew perplexed at my very normal, somewhat battered clothes. "I came here seeking his mace. I tried, but I could not pass the test. My faith was weak. Or perhaps Zenithar decided that it was not I who should carry the mace…perhaps now I see why."

"What can you tell me about it?" I asked.

Carodus nodded. "Legends say when Pelinal Whitestrake was slain by the Ayleids, a messenger carried the Mace here, to Leyawiin as a message. Leyawiin wasn't a proper city then, but was a prominent settlement. Centuries later, the master craftsman Saint Kaladas built the Chapel of Zenithar in Leyawiin as a tribute to the legend. When Saint Kaladas was laid to rest, those who prayed to Zenithar at his tomb began to receive visions of the Mace of the Crusader."

I've lived here most of my life and I never heard this story. Was I blind…? Or is it just one of those things? My stomach wobbled with uncertainty, so I forced myself to address Carodus. "So I just…pay respects at Saint Kaladas' tomb?"

"Indeed, it is what I did. Though I do not know if your vision will be the same as mine. Zenithar will test and judge as he sees fit." Carodus answered.

"Ailirah?" Bellona's hand found my shoulder.

"Yeah?" There's a connection between Zenithar and Kynareth. Maybe part of the reason I stopped here, instead of hunting down Fort Bulwark. Normally I'd have headed for the Fort first, coming back here to family and security. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just thinking." Let's see if I remember the children's lessons from the Chapel: Zenithar's the patron of craftsmen and merchants. Kynareth of wild places and the natural world. And they cross…because Zenithar's craftsmen use Kynareth's bounty to produce their goods.

That's the short version, I'm sure the grown-ups version is much longer.

And I have the boots, which were in Kynareth's care…

"I'll go have a look," I said to no one in particular. "Master Ol…sorry…"

"Oholin," Carodus corrected patiently.

"Oholin, I beg your pardon," turn on the Countess' good manners. "would you be willing to wait here, just in case?"

"Indeed – though the Chapel has already contracted me to do just that. They're worried," he lowered his voice. "Since the sack of the Chapel of Dibella."

"And so they should worry," Bellona intoned.

Looking around I noticed the priests moved rather furtively. "Come on," I said to Bellona, heading down towards the Undercroft.

--A--

Carodus didn't mention the ghosts. Or, perhaps, he didn't fight them at all – but the Undercroft spawned an infestation of low-level ghosts between the time I lived here, and now. It's as if everywhere I go, I draw ectoplasm out of the woodwork, inviting it to take form and grab a weapon.

"Well, that was unexpected," Bellona grunted, shaking ectoplasm from her sword. "There, that's Saint Kaladas." She motioned. "I'll watch your back. In case there are more." Bellona fights like a fury when she's in a bad mood – as she is now. I suppose that's where I get it from: when in doubt, fight it out.

Kneeling before Saint Kaladas' Tomb, set into a niche in the undercroft wall, I closed my eyes. My body froze in place, and the darkness became solid.

--A--

The world expanded about me, yet did not seem to exist at all. I still knelt on the ground, and the ground was still stone, like the undercroft floor – yet I no longer felt the floor digging into my knees. Across a great chasm, which extends, so far as I can tell, forever into starry darkness hovered the mace, shining in silver light above an altar.

The sense of 'is' and 'is not' reflects profoundly in the fact that my breath rises in coils, but the air isn't cold.

Still, this isn't half as disorienting as Paradise. Reaching back I found my backpack. Within the backpack, the boots, which I reluctantly pulled on. Unsurprisingly in the vision, they fit. Putting my old boots in my backpack, then swinging it back onto my shoulders, I looked at the path again. For a moment I thought I was wrong, ready to sit down and try to figure this puzzle out.

But something flickered, and I realized the boots buzzed softly against my feet. In the time it took me to blink, I saw the faintest suggestion of a path, leading straight across the chasm to the mace. taking a deep breath, ignoring my sense screaming _you'll fall headlong into nothing, fall forever!_ I took a step forward, looking at the mace. Only at the mace.

I didn't fall. Another step – it took all my strength not to look down, to see myself standing on nothing, or wisps of vapor. But I knew enough of the old morality tales to know, you _don't ever look down_. The mace came within my reach. The instant I drew it from its resting place everything vanished.

I found myself falling backwards.

--A--

It was like waking from the sense of falling. Only when my hands flew forward to brace myself against a nonexistent fall a clang of metal rang out. In my left hand I gripped the mace, looking exactly as it had in my vision.

"Now that's…" Bellona murmured, her expression somewhat startled. Then she smiled. "That's my girl."

I get the feeling that's _not _what she meant to say, but I didn't press the issue.

Somewhere above, someone yelled, and feet began to pound.

"Quickly." Bellona took the mace and shoved it into my backpack as I summoned Frostreaver and my armor.

I beat Bellona to the stairs, flying up them as if on wings, the skirts of my cuirass pounding against my knees.

A flash of golden armor.

"Get down in the Undercroft!" I barked over the screams, and the clash of metal on metal. Carodus stood between one of the armored men – Daedra, Aurorans – defending an injured priest.

Weapons crackling with sinister energy the Aurorans turned, evidently startled at reinforcements for Carodus. The priests fled as ordered, Bellona moving to block the stairs once they'd vanished down them. I hope the Undercroft stays quiet for them.

Striding forward I met one of the Aurorans halfway down the aisle leading towards the Undercroft. His axe caused sparks to dance when it slid across Frostreaver. The Auroran feinted left, dodged right, only to find Frostreaver waiting for him. He feinted left, feinted right, then actually dodged left, but again, I foiled him. You're not getting down those stairs.

I moved faster, more gracefully than I thought I could, barely avoiding a hack that could have cleaved my arm from the shoulder – but it allowed me to get in with Frostreaver. The Auroran dropped his axe as my blade went through the face-gap in his helmet. Pivoting, yanking Frostreaver free –careful not to look at the bloody gore – I found an open target. Moving to the side I launched myself at one of the two Aurorans menacing Bellona, the angle of the strike exploiting a chink in his armor. He wheezed as the blade slid in. "Tell Umaril, when you see him," I hissed softly, "these games are getting _old_." Yanking his helmet free I cast it across the room, spinning as the Auroran fell to his knees, taking his head off in one clean blow.

No name-calling. No futile raging. Just point of fact. Either come and get me, or I'm coming for you. Martin's amulet still isn't burning – meaning this is one hundred percent human get up and go.

Bellona took advantage of her Auroran's distraction - a comrade's head rolling down the stairs is not something to ignore. With a scream like a wildcat she lunged, both rapier points sinking through the armor, puncturing heart and lung. The Auroran fell back, twitching. He did not get back up.

Carodus came running towards us, his blade dripping with red blood, shining with a faintly gold sheen.

My poor, cowardly ghost puffed against my neck. Well, I suppose not all of us can be fighters, then.

"I didn't know humans could move like that!" Carodus gaped.

"Ailirah, where did you get those boots? They're…they're not yours." Bellona touched my arm, having wiped and sheathed one of her rapiers.

Looking down I saw, to my surprise, just as in the vision I now wore the boots. "I…I don't…remem…I used them in the vision, they're…they're Kynareth's." I answered dumbly. "Look out!"

Knocking Carodus out of the way I gave a roar, feeling Dremora-strength surge to the fore, but controlled, Martin's amulet burning soft reminders of humanity against my breast. The Auroran, somehow missed by us, dropped his shadowy cover a little too soon. Luckily. Otherwise, he'd have spitted Carodus like a boar.

Frostreaver sunk through the armor, up to the grips, just beneath the Auroran's breastbone. For a moment I gazed into the Auroran's golden eyes. Could see myself in them. There was no fear. No anger. Nothing…simply acceptance.

Pulling Frostreaver free, unease moved in my stomach. It's unnerving seeing anyone go to death so calmly…even though I suppose Aurorans simply return to the waters of Oblivion when they're 'killed' here…is that how it works? Umaril gets a fixed number to aide him, and once they die, they're free?

I don't have time to ponder.

"That was close," I rasped aloud, then coughed. I half-expected to see blood in my hand, the cough wracked so, but no. I'm still healthy.

"That thing would have…" Carodus shook himself, and then promptly turned his weapon hilt towards me, kneeling. "My lady, I would like to join you as one of the Knights of the Nine."

I answered without thinking, instinct, a surety of judgment brought the words to my mouth. "Great, you start right now. Bellona, I'm going to Bulwark. There's another artifact there – let's get the guys. I've got a bad feeling about this." I can trust my family to back me up, trust them

Bellona nodded, looking grimly pleased. "I'll fetch Einar. He'll want to come along."

"But Countess..."

"You call me Ailirah, like everyone else," I grunted. "I'm not wearing a dress today."

"Lady Ailirah…I'm not…"

I looked at him. Sturdy cuirass, pauldrons, he's armored. He's armed. He's viable – you don't need to worry about looking good. "You've got armor?" He nodded. "You've got a sword?" He nodded. "You're good to go – come on, it won't take her long to get Einar."

"Who's Einar?"

"My father."

--A--


	85. Chapter 85

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Eighty-Five

--A--

It was well into the next day when Bellona, Einar, my brothers, Carodus and I arrived at the remains of Fort Bulwark. Unsurprisingly, we weren't the first ones there. "Rogue conjurers," Roge grunted, nudging a bloodied corpse with his foot, the robes of which still showed a shade of stormy blue. Whatever Carodus' failings might be, a weak stomach isn't one of them – he happened to find himself standing behind the conjurer in question when Roge sunk a battleaxe into the man. Blood everywhere, and Carodus caught it across the face and chest, because when Roge hits you, you wind up whipping around when he pulls the axe out. Then he hits you _again_ to be safe.

"Roge?" I blinked, eyeing the bloodied axe, now resting nonchalantly against one massive shoulder. "Where's Wabbajack?" Roge _loves _Wabbajack.

Roge ginned ruefully. "Oh that. That thing up and disappeared months ago – guess Sheogorath wanted it back. Sorry Lirah – no more monsters-made-bunnies for you." Roge teased.

He was hoping for a smile, which he didn't get. I'm sorry Roge, I just don't have it in me anymore. "That's too bad…still." I shrugged. "You all right?" I motioned to Carodus.

"Fine." He answered. A little pale, but I actually believe him.

Walking over to the fallen mage I knelt, careful to avoid the blood pooling beneath him.

The dull, depressing weather did not provide good light, and my ghost is notoriously and thankfully _shy_ around other people – as if he doesn't want anyone thinking I've gone completely insane – or more likely, doesn't want anyone to attack him. The reality is, I'm only partly crazy - I can still function as a competent individual (more or less), I simply have accepted I've got a ghost in tow.

Thankfully, it's not raining, but the fogs have crept over from Black Marsh, and there's bogs around here – you smell them long before you can see them. Ugh, I don't want to step in one of those, I'll never get my boots out – and I don't think the ghost-knights in the basement of the Priory would be every impressed by such…carelessness.

"Necromancers," Einar rasped, kneeling opposite me. Sure enough, beneath the shabby blue conjurer's robes were black ones, that felt vaguely nasty to the touch – like worm-ridden grave dirt made fabric.

"Ugh," I groaned, standing up. "I hate necromancers." So does Meridia. I can't account for why they would want the shield, unless they have a use for it (necromancers are creative if nothing else), or they've gotten fed the wrong information. Don't Necromancers have some kind of hero of their own? Some dead guy? Unless they think the shield is Meridia's – never underestimate the power of misinformation – and this turns out to be one of her ingenious plots to get the necromancers in place for systemic removal.

Because I've never experienced a necromancer coming quietly to stand trial for the banned practices.

"I hate Necromancers," Bellona growled. I know her reasoning: ugly, smelly things that nearly killed her daughter. Well, killed at the very least.

"What _I_ want to know," Markos frowned, "Is what this thing we're after is."

"It's the companion to Ailirah's new boots, and you don't need to know anymore than that." Bellona answered gently, but firmly. "She's working, and asked you for help." Which is to remind them I _might _have tried doing this by myself, and gotten dreadfully hurt in the process, which they wouldn't want.

Markos had the grace to look chastened. So much so I actually felt a twinge of guilt in not confiding as much as I usually would.

"It's a shield," I elaborated. "It'll probably be red, roughly diamond-shaped." I'm taking a stab here, supposing the recurring theme and Amiel's shield are probably recurring themes and imitations. Like the fake Razor in Mehrunes Dagon's shrine. "My…source…" let's not mention the ghosts just yet, or the Protective Big Brother Helmets will come out, and I don't need that, "says this place isn't like the usual fort – it's been improved, so watch your steps. Particularly _you_." I pointed to Roge, who had the grace to look rather abashed. He's a little clumsy when he gets focused. It's nearly killed him several times, but he's got very strong luck.

To his left Jules tried not to smirk. I don't think Jules had accidentally set off a trap since he was a kid and didn't know any better – but that's an extremely subjective opinion.

"Come on." Bellona took me by the elbow and started forward. Wow – she's really anxious to _do something_ to help.

I hope she doesn't volunteer for this knight thing, because I think Carodus is going to be a little disappointed. Moldy Priory, no knight-captain (or whatever the head knight gets called), ghosts in the basement and an Ayleid undeadish relic with a bone to pick with humanity. I'm not sure what he thinks about modern elves, except the Aurorans in his service don't seem to mind killing them.

Normally my haunting would have blown across my neck, or something reassuring, but with so many people crowding towards the entryway, I imagine he's hanging back so no one walks though him.

"Is she always like that?" Carodus asked one of my brothers.

Jules gave a snort. "Which one? Look, just stay back. Lirah's got a…a habit of going a little nuts in a fight." Only the _once_.

Roge snorted. "Like you don't. Least I'll admit to it – _we like to fight_. So remember to keep out of swing range."

"Right..." Carodus scowled, as if unsure whether they were joking.

"They seem to be getting along," Bellona murmured as we pulled the heavy door open, the mist drifting in past us, like pipesmoke inhaled by a dark mouth.

"I swear those three couldn't _exist_ if they weren't allowed to pick on people." But I mean it fondly. I still don't know why I brought Carodus along, much less why I, in effect, signed him up to join the Knights of the Nine. I'm not rebuilding them, I'm hunting an Ayleid. There's a big difference.

I quit when this is over.

Yet, at the same time…I've got one of those instinctual, gut feelings. Those I've learned to trust.

"Lirah – you're not really recruiting knights," Bellona murmured as we stepped into the darkness of Fort Bulwark. "Are you?"

How well you know me. "No. But I had a gut feeling. Best to bring him along."

Bellona's hand closed over my shoulder. She knows about gut feelings.

--A--

Splitting up is not usually a good idea, but in this case, as we've so many people, we did. Makes it easier for us to pick off the Necromancers before too many realize they have company. That way, they can't set up any really nasty surprises for us. Surprise,and the element of - the dungeon diver's friend.

Carodus came with me, and after a few nasty incidents where he proved fairly competent with a sword, we came to the first 'improvement' the ghost-knight hinted at.

Carodus nearly stepped on it.

"Stop, _stop_." I growled, seizing hold of his cuirass by the collar.

He stopped, but scowled. "What is it?"

I'd ask the same thing, in his place. But I haven't nearly set off this kind of a trap in ages…then again, I know what to look for. Ayleids were _masters_ of the hidden trap. I've said it before, and it's true enough now. "You're not used to this. Look at the floor – what do you see?" I asked, forcing myself to assume the role of teacher, and not just chew him out for not paying attention.

"The floor…?" Carodus squinted, evidently catching on I wasn't asking stupid questions, but was attempting to educate him. I suppose classical knights don't dungeon dive. Put 'knight' on the list of things I'm _really _not cut out for. Right up there with 'hero' and 'politico'.

I was going to take Martin to do something like this. Jauffre would have…

I aborted this line of thought. I need my wits about me – you don't let yourself get complacent if you want to get your team out alive. Where there's one trap, there's more, and I have confirmation that whoever was here, all those years ago, they were probably an industrious group. "Look closer. Don't walk any further." Leaving him looking, I doubled back in search of a few hefty stones.

"Patterns on the floor – they're not anywhere else," he motioned.

"Good. Look at the walls – see how the lighting's not so good?" It's true, the sconces are usually placed at intervals – but the ones near these cunningly hidden pressure plates more so. "Watch." I dropped one of the stones in the first row of pressure plates I could discern. It landed squarely, a hail of tiny darts zipping through the air, out of the darkness.

"Damn…" Carodus shook his head.

"I see my timing remained impeccable. Not to worry!" Jules came hurrying up with Roge and Markos, Einar and Bellona following. All looked as though they'd found necromancers sneaking about, though Bellona sported tears in her cloak as if skeletal fingers had pierced the material. "I've got the answer! It's in the torches…you're _still _using the rock method?" he grimaced as I tossed another rock, testing the plates for the 'safe' ones. "It's really…"

"It _works_." Markos interrupted. "Just tell her, Jules." Guess which of the four taught me to use the rocks?

And I'm still going to test the plates, every step of the way. Safety first.

Jules sighed – what a burden to be so intellectually gifted – before shaking out a piece of paper, and reading it aloud. When everyone simply waited for him to carry on, he sighed again. "Left, middle, right, left."

"Okay." I retrieved the stone, grateful I hadn't thrown it far. I tested the plate. No darts. Stepping forward

Bellona stepped up to the spot I'd just vacated. "We chain along," she explained to Carodus. "Decreases the chance someone missteps. You just follow the person in front of you." She explained.

Jules always did have a head for puzzles – not a step put of place, and we reached the next level without anyone winding up looking like an archery target at Midsummer. Come to think of it, I _missed_ Midsummer. Thoughts of could-have-been welled up like blood droplets at the edges of a wound.

Rather than give anyone a chance to ask me if I was all right I forced my feet to take me down to the entry of the next level.

I hope this place doesn't delve too far.

--A--

In our haste to make sure we got all the necromancers immediately near the stairs, we almost missed the prisoner. I'm sure we'd have noticed eventually but as he wasn't shooting spells, or summoning undead things for Roge to smash in showers of bone fragments and dust…well.

"Markos!" Bellona barked, a shout which nearly distracted me from the necromancer I was menacing. This guy doesn't know when to…_quit_.

A lucky swipe cleaved the mage's arm from his body, a second took his head, allowing me to turn and find what Bellona wanted. Up ahead, Roge was still booming at his opponents. Then he yelped, and began shouting in earnest. The words didn't carry clearly back to the rest of us, but the meanings are perfectly plain.

If Bellona could, she'd wash his mouth out with soap, and the shifty look the three of us siblings shared confirmed we were all in agreement about this.

"I better go keep an eye on him…" Jules murmured.

"Hey," I caught Jules' sleeve. "Has anyone been making sure Roge gets out regularly?" I asked. Roge loves a good fight – and necromancers aren't Dremora, so he's happier than flies on sugar.

Jules gave a rueful smile. "Anything less tough than a Dremora and he thinks he's eight years old, and that's it's playtime. I swear, he gets worse as he gets older." I tried not to shudder at the thought of Dremora, but thankfully, there was nothing more than a passing shudder of distaste.

Kathutet had better steer good and clear of me, or I'm sending him back to Mehrunes Dagon in _pieces_.

Markos had, by now, finished jimmying the lock open. Of all of us, Markos is the one who can do this most reliably. "There you go," he announced, swinging the door opened.

"Your bothers are..." Carodus muttered, watching Jules vanish around a corner.

"Crazy? We all are." I answered mildly. "But there's no one else I'd want watching my back. Are you okay?" I asked of the stunned-looking Redguard. He showed signs of torment. Even now, Bellona was making him sit down against a wall, so she could attend his injuries.

"I am now…" he responded gruffly, looking from Einar, to Bellona, to Jules, then to Carodus and myself. "Some crew you've got…who's in charge?"

"She is." Einar reached back, planted a massive hand between my shoulder blades and drew me forward.

"He's been tortured – what did they want?" Bellona explained to me, before asking him soothingly. The Redguard yelped as Bellona, taking advantage of his distraction, popped a finger back into joint, quickly doing the next two.

Panting, the Redguard glowered at Bellona's mumbled, perfunctory apology. "They wanted to know what _I_ know…assuming I knew something useful to them," he said.

"What's your name?" I asked, kneeling before the Redguard. He hasn't been here too long, but Bellona's right –there's marks all over him. He also looks like he could do with a little feeding up.

"Thedret." The Redguard answered, then gave a sigh as relief as Bellona did something for his ribs. "Oh…that's better, thanks."

Bellona nodded.

"Listen, I can't go with you, I'm too weak...I need to rest."

"Too right. Ailirah, he shouldn't be left alone in this state." Bellona reported, standing up, looking a little tired. "I've done what I can, but I'm not a miracle worker."

Einar wordlessly drew Bellona towards him. I think I'm the only one who noticed the way she seemed to sag against him, as if spent. Bellona hasn't had to practice restoration magicka in a long time –and the skills fade if not exercised. Just like physical strength.

"Once I have my strength back, I'll certainly join your cause. But the knowledge I've gained may be of use to you." Thedret got unsteadily to his feet. "Before finding this place, I learned a bit about those who created it. A phrase kept coming up in the writings I found: 'When the eyes of the Guardians are upon you, Julianos will show you favor.'"

"Damn, where's Jules?" Markos frowned. The sounds of battle had drawn away, now a dim sort of noise letting us know at least one of my brothers was still fighting. I'm not worried – they've faced worse than necromancers.

"It's okay." I get the feeling it won't matter in the long run.

"I'm not sure how, but I just know it's a clue for making it safely through these ruins. You're the only one I have told. I hope it helps you." Thedret offered.

"It's more than we knew earlier. Carodus, would you please make sure Thedret gets safely to Leyawiin."

"We'll take them both." Einar rasped, giving Bellona a worried look, his heavy eyebrows knitting together. Would you believe their relationship started over a contested Dibellite artifact? Really.

Carodus looked ready to protest, but perhaps it was Bellona's pasty-pale complexion that stopped him. "Of course."

"I'll tell the boys." I declared, Markos nodding in agreement before we took off down the corridor, the noise of Roge and Jules' fight getting louder, before stopping altogether.

"You might want to see this," Markos handed over a piece of paper as the silence gave way to the usual sibling banter, echoing through the vaults.

The note he handed me contained good news: we'd saved Thedret just in time, and the necromancers had not managed to get past this level.

"Still!" Roge boomed somewhere up ahead, in the middle of a sentence as the rest of us caught up. "How many statues do you need? I'd expect something like that from Dibella."

"_Roge_," Jules began, eyeing the five statues – four fairly standard-looking guardians on the level upon which we stood (surrounded by dead things and deader necromancers) and a fifth, obviously Julianos, atop a stairwell.

"It's a dead end," Markos noted a moment later.

"It's a puzzle." I answered, though this ought to be obvious. Painfully obvious. "Oi!" I barked, startling Jules and Roge to the point they both jumped. "See if you can move those statues – turn them to face…" I stepped between two of them. A circular seal on the floor – but not the familiar device. Still, it's a start- if that fails, I'll turn them to face the fifth statue, which _is_ looking at the seal.

The statues turned easily, despite their size, though I required assistance to turn the one I took. The task was no great feat for my bearmen-brothers. I mean that fondly.

"There it is!" I barked, starting forward. No sooner had the statues all turned to face the center of the room, then they sort of slipped down and locked into place, a door opening off to the left. No sooner had I crossed the threshold then I felt the chill of old magicka invoked. Turning I found Roge touching the barrier which had sprung up, filling the door.

"Lirah! I _know _we didn't teach you to just run off like that!" Roge barked.

"It's all right, Roge, the necromancers never got past there…" Jules was now feeling the doorway. "Lirah – this has to do with…with your mission, right?" Hew peered earnestly into my face, but I don't think he found what he was looking for, because a moment later he looked very tired, and older than he should.

I nodded.

"There was a gate we couldn't open, on the level above, we'll work on it. There's always a back way out in these places…where're Einar and Bellona?" Jules responded briskly.

"They went with Carodus and Thedret back to Leyawiin – we rescued a prisoner, he was hurt." I didn't mention Bellona overstretching herself, but I didn't need to. The significant look and accompanying grimace Markos gave spoke loudly enough.

"I'll get there as fast as I can." I promised, turning to follow the long corridor, my haunting puffing encouragingly at me. "Bit crowded for you, isn't it? Can you imagine growing up that way?"

The long hallway eventually gave way to a large room, full of guardians, all facing the walls, lots of empty chests, a raised dais with a larger chest, a pressure plate I declined to step on, and a sealed door. The door I'd come in through, I discovered, had also sealed itself, with the same barrier which kept my brothers from following.

"You're still here…right?" I asked aloud, feeling fear tickle my stomach.

My haunting puffed at me.

"Good."

He's not a lot of use, but it's reassuring to know he's hovering. A moment later, he took on the appearance of a dusky magelight. "Well, what do you think?" I asked, walking back up the stairs, bypassing the plate, to open the chest. Inside lay a red gem, of uncommon hue and brilliance. It was nearly as big as my hand.

Looking for my haunting, I found it doing a sort of hopping imitation near the plate. "Don't you know anything about dungeon diving? You never just step on those…" it increased the speed of the motion, rather like a toddler throwing a fit, leaving faint afterimages of light where it bobbed.

"Okay, okay…"  
I crossed, looking at the plate. The ceiling was far enough up, and badly enough lit I couldn't see it clearly, to discern whether there were any nasty surprises triggered to fall from the ceiling. Slipping my backpack off, I stepped back, and dropped it on the plate. The plate ground, but nothing happened. Looking around, I saw an illusory object hovering over one of the chests: a helmet.

It took me nearly an hour – or what felt like an hour – for my haunting and I to figure out what this whole load of bollocks-horseshit-crap in a sack was all about. Fortunately, the next room led to the shield – which looked very much as I expected, only more detailed, and heavier than Amiel's. I've never been much for heavy shields, or shields in general, so the details don't mean much to me.

There was also a door, which led me right back to where my brothers were fighting and fussing to get past a stubbornly closed gate. A gate I opened with a flick of a lever, to the hilarious result they all toppled forwards in a many-limbed pile.

There they are: my my big brothers lying around on the job. It's good some things don't change.

--A--


	86. Chapter 86

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

Author's Notes Continued: An early update, because SOMEONE is having a birthday today! You know who you are: happy birthday. ^_^

--A--

Chapter Eighty-Six

--A--

Carodus and Thedret both left for the Priory of the Nine, as I left for Chorrol. Once again, I found myself with someone wanting to be a knight, and again, I got that gut feeling to say yes. Thankfully, though, neither tried to insist upon following me wherever I meant to go.

I did not go straight to Uncle Modryn's, rather, I went to the chapel.

The Gauntlets lay towards the back, surrounded by candles and flowers – apparently small tributes, though whether to the knight, or the gauntlets, or to some other purpose I don't know. They looked truly beautiful, lying there, reflecting the glint of the candles. And at the same time, knowing what I know about them, and why they lie here like this…

I jumped – it's getting to be a bad habit – when a hand descended upon my shoulders. "May I assist you?" The mer asked kindly.

"Yeah, don't sneak upon me like that," I panted, resisting the ninny's urge to clutch at my heart and shiver violently. What _is _it with people these days? And what is it with me? I'm not usually one to get sneaked up on.

"My apologies," though the mer's eyebrows went up, indicating I might want to be a little more aware of my surroundings, if I didn't with to have people slip up behind me. "You should know, as it's my job to keep people from hurting themselves," he added, seeing my gaze return pensively to the gauntlets, "you won't be able to lift them. So spare yourself the effort."

"I know." Casimir told me. He struck the beggar, who tried his patience. The man died, the gauntlets fell off, and he, Casimir himself, was cursed. I can see it as a sad story. All the participating parties are dead and gone, so it does no one any good to point out the knight acted foolishly. After all, I'm supposed to be trying to loose them from this ectoplasmic existence.

"May I inquire as to the reason for your interest? Not that I mean to pry, it's just these have become more a novelty, a sight-seeing stop for travelers…" he trailed off, realizing I might _really_ only be here for the sights.

"I'd like to hear about the gauntlets, if you know the tale," I answered, more to buy myself thinking time than because I needed the additional information. I'm the secondhand account from the firsthand party, after all.

And how ironic, to talk about 'hands' when the artifact in question goes on the hands.

The mer chattered on as I considered. If no one has lifted them so far, there's probably a reason why, and my being the relic collector probably won't allow me to pick them up. Not with all the tests everyone else is throwing at me. First Kynareth and her bear, then Zenithar's walk of faith, intelligence to get to the Shield…with a sigh, I rubbed my eyes. It's not been a long day, but the riding is starting to catch up with me. Mori, bless his heart, was very glad to see a stable, with a full feedbag. A very full feedbag: he deserves it.

"…the curse still lingers on today, in fact. Poor Kellen." The mer concluded, shaking his head.

"Kellen?" This jerked me out of my reverie in time to see the somewhat shifty look on the priest's face. "Who's Kellen?"

"Oh," the priest swallowed, as though caught in an angry mage's line of fire. "Why he's a descendant of that very knight from so long ago." Casimar had_ kids_ when all this happened? Ugh, that would have been nice to know. I'd have started with them. "The curse has affected his family all these years…Kellen suffers from it now," he concluded quietly, a mix of guilt and worry clouding his features.

"Casimir's curse is still…it's still in effect?" Definitely a major curse, if it's crossed generations. That's why they're so rare. Maybe it's best I didn't go in and hammer on the guy for answers. Diplomatic – Ocato keeps telling me it's the word of the week. It has been the word of the week for quite some time.

The priest's eyes jerked from the floor to my face at the use of the name, but he didn't question it. Rather, he nodded. "He came here from Hammerfell seeking a cure, but, ahh..." He swallowed again, looking off to his left. "Well, there's really nothing that can be done for him, I think."

Your nervous twitches tell me you're not telling me everything. I don't believe you're lying, but you're definitely omitting details. Don't try that with me, it used to be one of my favorite tactics.

"He may know more of the story than I. Perhaps you should speak with him, if he's feeling well enough. If you go downstairs, he stays with us. It's...it's the least I can do." I know the smile he hefted onto his face, a cheerful, glaringly pleasant false smile meant to hide something deeply unpleasant.

"I think I will, thank you." I inclined my head. Don't wander off, I'll bet my boots – yes, even the Crusader's boots – I'll be seeing you again. Soon.

The cool living quarters of the priests didn't have me wandering on my own for long. Within minutes another member of the clergy directing me towards where Kellen stayed. Knocking politely on the door I heard a groan. "Yeah – come in."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," I announced as I stepped into the brightly lit room. It looked as though the Redguard had simply slipped into a doze. However, even as he rubbed at his eyes, I could see the deeply-etched marks of chronic exhaustion on his face. In a fair world, I'd probably look like that, myself.

"I'm sorry...do I know you?" He tried hard to make the question sound polite, but the confusion as to my unexpected appearance showed.

"No, I don't think so. My name is Ailirah of Leyawiin…"

"The Gatewalker." Kellen made to get up, but fell back to sitting on his bed halfway through. "Sorry."

"Not at all. May I have a moment of your time?"

"Certainly," he waved to a chair, which I drew over. Facing Kellen I found faint similarities to the few features I could discern from Casimir's ghost, but not much. Too much time has passed – but not enough to get rid of a curse. It's so unfair. "What can I do for you?"

That should be my question. I may not be a hero, or a volunteer anymore, but I'm not heartless. "I'm gathering information on the Gauntlets," I motioned to their general direction. "I was wondering if you would mind telling me what you know…the Altmer priest said you might be willing."

"Areldur?" Kellen's face darkened, but he shrugged. "Of course. You've seen them, I assume." He looked up and I nodded. "The only evidence of what happened so many years ago." He explained about Casimir - by name, and with evident disgust – then shook his head, slouching as though the effort to keep his posture straight had taken too much effort to maintain it any longer. "Do you know, I thought perhaps I could lift them? That somehow this curse would be lifted if I could pick them up?" He murmured, his mouth obscured by his clasped hands, his eyes resting about chin-level on me. Closing his eyes, his brow furrowed he looked as though he were praying.

Part of me was glad when he closed his eyes, lest he see the emotions creeping into my own expression. It's so unfair. Why curse the child for the crime of the father? It only sows seeds of dissent in the next generation…and the next…could you be part of what's holding Casimir in Nirn? Some unspoken knowledge that his crime – murder of the meek in the Chapel of Mercy – punished more than just the guilty party? The guilt becoming a chain., binding the soul long after the body gave out?

"I tried for hours. Until my whole body ached, and I could barely move. I lay there on the floor next to them, weeping." Kellen looked up, then shook his head with a heavy sigh that seemed to come up from his toes. "I'm not ashamed to admit that. I've been at the end of my rope for far too long to be ashamed of anything."

"You've more courage than many men I've known." I responded quietly.

Kellen's expression took on hints of perplexity. "Thank you."

Nodding I got to my feet. "Thank you, Kellen, for your time."

"Not at all…you know," he added a moment later, as if suddenly jumping to a conclusion. "I've seen plenty of pity in peoples' eyes over the years. I grew up recognizing it."Ah, he's responding to the courage part of the comment. I'll bet he's never heard that before. "Though with Areldur...There's something else there. When he speaks to me, there are times I'd swear he sounds...apologetic. Guilty, even. Why would that be?"

"I don't know." But I intend to do a little investigating and find out. I noticed it too – he knows something, something he doesn't want to tell. Fortunately I'm used to people giving 'no' as their first answer, then reconsidering their position.

No, I'm not going to beat up the priest. I don't need my fists for this, I suspect he's beaten himself up plenty. Also, Bellona would maim me if I did, and she found out.

"I'm sorry." Kellen shook his head, dismissing his track of thought. "I'm rambling."

"Don't be. Thank you again, for your time."

Withdrawing, I hastened back up the stairs and caught Areldur lurking. He saw me, tried to slip away, and failed. "I was wondering," I declared with forced politeness, "if I might have one more moment of your time?" My tone indicated this was not really a request. This is my Countess making demands voice, which I don't think I've ever really used.

Areldur, seeing he was caught, sighed and nodded.

"What do you know about Kellen's curse?"

Areldur's eyes widened at my bluntness. "It's a horrible thing, truly. One cannot help but pity those such as Kellen, who have such a burden placed on them through no fault of their own." He babbled, almost manically, then he slowed down as I glowered at him austerely. It's something Tevyn was teaching me, letting people know I'm displeased without shouting and getting all red in the face.

Ocato should make _Tevyn _Count Kvatch.

"But...But if it is the will of the Nine, then there is little that can be done." Areldur finished lamely.

"I don't think you're telling me the whole truth, Areldur. Please." I'll only ask you once. Then I'm just going to _tell _you.

Areldur shifted, squirmed, then gradually met my eyes, and held my gaze. Waving me to follow him, he withdrew to a shadowy corner of the Chapel, leaning against the wall, hunching as if to ward off the cold. With a heavy sigh he began to address my knees, rather than look me in the face. "You're right," he murmured, "I know what would lift Kellen's curse. But I cannot do it!" He looked up suddenly, fear, guilt, and shame etched upon his features. "The only way to free Kellen of his curse is to take it on myself. I am not strong enough to do this, and so I am a failure." He looked almost mad for a moment, and I felt an unexpected stab of pity for him.

And fear for myself.

"I fail Kellen every time I speak to him, and I fail Stendarr every time I pray to him and do not ask for the power to lift the curse. It is…it is my shame." Areldur croaked.

I looked at the altar. The bruises healing across my throat throbbed as I remembered my terror facing Kynareth's bear. The unease of walking, unseeing, across something as ephemeral as a cloud of light, to reach the mace. But this…and there's no guarantee it would work. For a moment the altar seemed as far from where I stood as the moons above.

"Thank you for telling me." I said. "I should go." Heavy hearted I left the chapel, more to give myself time to think than because I'm running away.

Picking my way towards Uncle Modryn's house my thoughts swung back and forth like pendulums.

I could take the curse – I won't have a family line to pass it on to. It would end with me. No one else need suffer.

But I need my strength, because every step I take brings me closer to confrontation with Umaril. And he's strong, been hoarding strength for centuries for _this fight_.

It would be the…the honorable thing to do. No one deserves to suffer for a crime not their own.

But I don't want to waste away…I've experienced a measure that already. I might have nothing left to live for, might simply _exist_ in the world…but I don't want to wither, lingering like a wraith painted over by memory.

But it could pave the way to a quicker death. And if the Nine saw fit to let the curse fall on me, and I died…they'd either have to find a new champion or watch their chapels broken down and desecrated. But I'm not foolish enough to think that I could volunteer to take on the curse, and someone, somewhere would decide not to allow it to fall on me, just because I did the noble honorable thing. That's all right in fairy tales, but in real life...every choice has a price.

It still doesn't feel like a safe bet.

Automatically I reached up to tap on Uncle Modryn's door. He wrenched it open, paint brushes in one hand, and one stuck behind his ear. His expression softened slightly - only slightly - when he recognized me. "Finally come to see me, have you?" He turned, and I followed him in. He was working on a new painting – a portrait. I think it's supposed to be an Orc, but with vividly red lips, I'm not so sure. "Well, you can give an opinion. What do you think?" He waved at the green blob with swollen red lips.

"It…shows definite improvement." I answered diplomatically. Tevyn would be so proud.

Modryn nodded in a very self-satisfied way as I fetched a chair. "So, what can I do for you? Are your idiot brothers behaving themselves?" He added dryly. He's made it clear if they start acting like idiots again, I'm to tell him and _he'll_ sort them out.

"Yeah – I took them out hunting necromancers a few days ago," I answered. "I was wondering…do you know the story of Umaril, the Unfeathered?"

Modryn, about to put paintbrush to canvas pulled the brush back, cocking his head so his mohawk wobbled almost comically. "Oddly enough I do. Why? You're not involved in…" he broke off, immediately going on a mumbled tirade about Ocato, ineptitude, the Elder Council, idiocy, and placing way too much responsibility on a nice girl like me.

I think he feels bad, since he encouraged me to find a boyfriend. I found one, and now he's dead. Modryn has decided he _knows _I'd be happier _now _if I hadn't developed an attachment to Martin. He works it out to being his fault I'm unhappy – I tried to tell him otherwise, but he doesn't listen. If you know Modryn, you know how he gets.

I don't know if that's true or not – I suspect I'd wind up miserable one way or another.

Uncle Modryn did lecture about Umaril and Pelinal, and again, I found the context of the story somewhat different. Umaril baited Pelinal, Pelinal showed up on Umaril's doorstep – slaughtering everyone and everything in his way. Umaril proceeded to drag his feet about coming out for a fight.

Modryn obviously loves this story, probably has to do with the fact there's so much room for bloodshed and all the violent details. Seriously – I'm starting to wonder if this new piece of art is a portrait off some new flame. Orcs can get rough, tough as they are, and Modryn…he might enjoy that sort of thing.

Anyway, Umaril finally shows up, he and Pelinal get into a pissing contest., Umaril gets his ass kicked, Umaril's goons kick Pelinal's ass (and dismember him into eight pieces – in reality, not just the symbolic dispersion of the eight artifacts, real gory dismemberment while he screams in agony (Uncle Modryn _really_ gets into this stuff) - to be scattered across Cyrodiil as a warning), just before the Ayleids find Morihaus the Bull kicking in their faces.

"So what's your interest in this? Apart from the obvious?" Modryn asked.

"What's the obvious?" I asked, watching Modryn paint a beauty mark near the orc's eye. Don't let my brothers see this – they'll die laughing.

"A more efficient way to kick other people's asses, with style. You're very good at it." Modryn responded, his tongue between his teeth as though picking out details.

"So who is this, exactly?"

Modryn again stopped short of putting more paint on the canvas. I can almost see the wheels in his head returning. "A commission."

"Ah, I see. Remember, Orcs usually look horrible in yellow. For her dress."

I could have sworn – and Modryn's grimace makes me think I'm not wrong – I heard him mumble something about her not _wearing_ a dress. Eee...I don't want to think about this.

Wincing at the not-quite-a-thought, I extracted myself from Modryn's preoccupation before his painting moved on from the Orc's face to other…assets.

--A--

The Chapel was fairly empty, by the time I knelt before the altar around twilight. It took me all day, just walking around Chorrol, to scrape together the courage to do what I have to do. I know, deep down, there's no other way, if I want to bring the gauntlets back to the Priory. So I enjoyed my last day as a fairly whole, healthy woman. It's not a decision I'm comfortable with, but it's also one I can't simply walk away from, however much I might want to.

Kneeling before Stendarr's altar, I sighed, then bowed my head deferentially.

I know that Casimir acted foolishly. I won't argue that. But I am willing to take the burden of the curse off his descendant, Kellen. What…whatever it takes.

I felt something cold seem to radiate in my left hand, like a cold river-rock gripped in my palm, accompanied by instinct. Getting up off my knees, I strode down to the priest's living quarters where Kellen and Areldur sat eating supper. The tension at the table was palpable, Areldur's guilt over his continuing silence, Kellen's frustration at same.

Both looked up, however when I appeared at the empty edge of the table, Kellen on my left, Areldur on my right. "I wanted to thank you both, for sharing your stories with me." I announced. My throat tightened. I don't think I could do this, if I couldn't feel the cold spell in my hand. Every footstep feels like a step closer to doom, every word like lead, clanking to the floor, as immovable as the gauntlets themselves.

All I have to do is touch him, the curse will lift for a few moments, then settle on me, like a heavy cloak. Or so I imagine – whatever it feels like, I'll bet it's painful. Well, I suppose I'm no stranger to pain, really. Still, pain is unpleasant. "Especially you." I closed my hand over Kellen's shoulder, in imitation of a friendly gesture.

It happened so quickly I almost toppled over, though a quick reach for the table allowed me to brace myself. I could hear Kellen's words over the sudden wave of exhaustion rippling painlessly across my consciousness. Closing my eyes, for a moment I thought I would fall. A door banged and I felt hands guide me towards the vacated bench. "Wow…" I muttered, though I didn't sit down.

I don't hurt, but I feel unaccountably _weary_. This must be the curse.

Forcing myself to stand up straight I moved slowly for the door. The labor of getting up to the chapel properly without showing too much weakness nearly drained me. It was too easy to let gravity work, pulling me to the ground near the gauntlets.

The gauntlets lifted as easily as leather gloves, despite being the heavier gloves a knight in armor might prefer. With effort I managed to put them in my backpack, put the backpack back on, and stand up, to find Areldur watching, his face chalky-pale. "You...You lifted the curse?" Breathing a little harder than I would have liked I nodded, leaning heavily on the back of one of the pews. How am I supposed to fight Umaril, if I'm hobbling around like a little old lady?"But... That means that now you've cursed yourself!" He looked even more tortured. "Why would you do such a thing?" I could see him trying to muster the courage to take the curse off me.

Don't. It's all right.

"Because. Children shouldn't…pay for a parent's lapse in judgment. And there's no risk I'll pass the curse along." I added. None whatsoever. "It's okay…I'm just a little tired." I found I could stand straight, but the feeling of exhaustion didn't so much pass, as I managed to shove it to the back of the queue of problems I'm currently dealing with. "This on top of a long day. I'm sure I'll be able to function well for a while yet…"

Truthfully, at the moment, it's no different from a couple weeks working with the Blades, trying to get the Amulet of Kings back. I used to feel pretty run-ragged then, too.

"I can't believe you were willing to do that for Kellen. To sacrifice your own well-being without hesitation..." Areldur shook his head.

"There was hesitation." I corrected. "Don't get the wrong idea…still. I hope Mehrunes Dagon doesn't have any Dremora still prowling, or I'm pretty well in the…in deep trouble." Don't swear to the priest – Bellona's upbringing held firm. My ghost brushed my neck unexpectedly, and I felt a vague sort of sizzle, as well as a trickle of what I might call my second wind.

And speaking of my ghost…I don't think he's connected with the Knights of the Nine, however much he tends to stay out of the way when I conduct business in the Chapels. Not as though he's not allowed in, so much as politely refrains from drawing attention to himself. Like a polite guest.

"Perhaps," Areldur crossed his arms over his chest, his elegantly arched eyebrows knitting together. "But what business do I have acting as a priest if I'm not willing to do all I can in helping those who need it? Perhaps I need to re-think my calling."

This reminded me so forcibly of Martin, my throat locked up, and my eyes stung. "Because sometimes," my voice was not as strong as I would have liked. "…sometimes we wait for the gods to intervene, only to find…they've already got the problem fielded, and sent mortal hands to do the work." I answered quietly. It's hard to say, because I know it's true, and it takes away all my excuses for not wanting to do this. "I learned that from a very dear friend." I managed to say this without crying, but with a great effort. Exhaustion always makes things like this stab more deeply into a wounded heart.

"Who?" Areldur asked.

For moment I teetered on telling the unvarnished truth. "Another priest." I answered with a shrug. One who saw war, and death. Given Areldur's expression, he read between the lines, and knew to which priest I was referring. "I'm learning, coincidence is a word we mortals use when we can't see the entire web of strings connected to and pulling on our own." I swallowed. It doesn't make acceptance any easier, but it's true.

"You know, many paint you as a…a muscle-headed fighter, more interested in arms than reasoned arguments." Areldur noted.

"I can be." I answered. "But more and more I find there's need for other things. I'd like to think I'm learning wisdom, too." Thank Tevyn for that. My ghost brushed the back of my neck, before a hand's weight settled on my shoulder. Or the impression of weight. I think it suspects my real reasoning: I'm halfway to hoping this quest kills me, once it's over. You know? The hero and the villain dead in one lighting-lit moment? Though, I'll make sure Umaril's _thoroughly dead_ before I turn in my chainmail.

Death holds no horror for me. It's living which is difficult.

"Here," a handkerchief pressed itself into my hand. Automatically I dabbed it at my eyes, my throat forming a painful knot. Nearly six months and I'm still bleeding to death from a wound no one can cure. I should have succumbed to it by now. I'm too tough for my own good. Like beef cooked to bootleather.

"Thank you." Turning, I started for the chapel doors.

"Can't I convince you to stay, you look…" Areldur began.

I stopped, shaking my head. "No. The Fighters Guild will put me up for the night," Jules made an injunction to the Guild on my behalf months ago. As a former member, Imperial Champion, and his little sister, I had the right to stay the night at any guildhall in Cyrodiil, or out of it, as a guest.

I heard he got a lot of guff for it, but he hasn't backed down, and I don't think he will. "Then I must be off." I have to get back to the Priory of the Nine, and unload all this equipment before carrying it gets to be too much. Already I find myself more and more aware of the weight, the straps of my pack cutting into my shoulders.

Well, I still have Mori.

--A--


	87. Chapter 87

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. ^_^ Sorry about the slow updates: there was a soap opera involving my computer.

--A--

Chapter Eighty-Seven

--A--

I expected to find Thedret and Carodus both at the Priory of the Nine. What I _didn't_ expect was to find Avita, the priestess from Kynareth's shrine, blessing the garden for the next growing season. Nor did I expect the Nordic brothers Geimund and Gukimir who had somehow heard of us from Skyrim, and had travelled here to join. And to complete this motley crew which I'm apparently heading, (the word 'championing' comes to mind, but I don't want to use it) Areldur turned up around suppertime, as I tried to keep from drooping face first into my stew, listening to the banter of diverse people getting to know one another.

I don't need to listen hard: Nords are usually pretty loud. I understand half of their private conversations, and it's painfully apparent they don't realize I do.

As fare as dinner...I'm not sure I want to eat much more of it - though granted, it tastes better than most things Markos ever burned up for us. However, the problem is that at least with Markos, I knew what went _into _the stew in the first place. Geimund _says _its rabbit, but I know what a rabbit tastes like, and I know what it feels like between the teeth, and _this_ is not _it_. Might be wolf. Might be _snake_, but it's the wrong season for those. At least I haven't found any fangs, or talons or anything weird in it. Other than the strange…fillings…it's edible. Avita's sweetrolls by contrast look, smell and probably _taste_ spectacular, but I'm just too tired to care beyond noticing.

Fortunately for me, I think the terms of this curse have…altered, I guess. Kellen could barely function – though Areldur keeps watching me, as if expecting me to fall on my nose every time I move. I've already told him don't bother getting worked up – _and don't mention the curse to anyone else_. It's _my_ choice, _I_ made it, so leave me alone about it. It's not so bad, I suppose, it doesn't actually _hurt_, the way I expected it to. I just get tired faster and earlier than usual. Or maybe I just have more resources to erode, since I've lived a lifestyle of a healthy, active, adventure seeking, risk taking, Dremora-bashing individual.

I _must _be tired: the mention of Dremora doesn't even make me scowl. Either way, I'll consider it a mercy I'm not rendered unable to function on any active level.

It's odd, how people know where to find this place, yet I haven't had to tell any overeager teenagers they're too young, inexperienced, or tell them to quit goggling at my cuirass. Thank goodness.

Avita had a vision. The brothers simply knew where to go, though I think they may have consulted the local wisewoman about the exact location of the priory. Areldur said he set out to follow me, and followed a cloaked figure he _thought _was me on foot the whole way, only to find I'd arrived some hours earlier.

I have suspicions about the cloaked figure, which would fall in line with the idea that only those guided here can find the place. Or those with genuine business here. It would certainly explain the lack of glory-seeking, overeager kids. I think I'm the youngest person here. Fortunately, this doesn't bother me in the slightest. You grow up the baby in a midsized family and you learn not to care much for age differences.

Well, youngest or not, I'm also the most exhausted. No one said anything when I excused myself. Thedret and Carodus swear they found furnishings for this place in the basement when they got here, but I'll swear with equal veracity there _were no such things here_ when I visited last. I'm too tired to think about it, I'll talk to the ghost-knights in the morning. They've waited this long, I suspect a good night's rest for me won't cause them any discomfort.

I wonder who else knows they're down there? Maybe they'll turn out shy ghosts who…ugh…don't like to show themselves...much…zzzzzg.

--A--

"Ailirah? Ailirah, please wake up," Avita's voice pierced my pitch black haze of sleep, just before she gave me a gentle shake.

"What?" I groaned, rolling into my back, the better to glower woozily at her. It can't be morning already. My eyes tried to close. So sleeeeeepyyyy...

"…squire wants to see…even awake, are you?"Avita's disembodied voice demanded, fading towards the end.

_Every knight needs a squire. As every Emperor needs a champion…or an empress._

"Squire...Martin…?"

Avita huffed. "You're not even _awake_ are you?" She repeated.

"I told you!" Areldur's clipped voice announced, entering the room, sounding both upset, harassed and harried. Two more pairs of feet. Who's he got with him? Go away. I'm sleeping here...or trying to. "She has Black Marsh sleeping sickness, it'll take more time for her to come around than the average person! It's not her fault."

Wow. The priest's lying to another priest…I suppose I ought to open my eyes, break up the fight.

"Don't be _ridiculous_," Avita said scornfully. "If she had that mess, I or you could have pulled it off her. I know a curse when I see one and she sure as hell wasn't cursed when she came to Lady Kynareth's shrine." I could almost hear narrowed eyes at this.

"Knock it off. _Both _of you." I grunted, probably fairly inaudibly as I forced my eyes open, and my sleep-numbed muscles to sit me up. "I'm up. What?" I asked groggily. Over Areldur's shoulder I found the source of the second set of footsteps. Pointing at the man I blinked a few more times, then ignored the fact I had just asked a question. "I know you…Roderic's squire. He didn't introduce you." I didn't try to stand up. Heavy exhaustion kept trying to pull my brain back under, like…

…never mind what like, I don't have the energy to fish for a metaphor.

"Yes," the lad nodded. Well, I call him a lad, he's my age at least. Hugging his bundle like that makes him look younger.

Getting to my feet I frowned. "Where's Roderic?" I demanded, though the lad's face said it all.

Looking closer, my brain began to work a little more smoothly. I sit a law of physics that crisis occurs when and only when the responsible party has just gotten to sleep?

This man's come a long way. Travel-stained, looking nearly exhausted, I could see the edges of panic only just beginning to wear off. "Is there anything left from supper?" I asked.

"Plenty, shall I go warm it up?" Avita asked, recovering herself.

"Please. What's your name?" I asked the squire gently.

"Lathon." He answered, swallowing hard as he looked around.

"Come on, Lathon. We'll heat you some supper, we'll talk downstairs. Come on." Exhaustion peeled back like a curtain torn slowly away from a window. Once I'd sat down – Lathon sat, but immediately got up, unable to hold still. "What happened to Roderic?" I expect he's dead, but at least his squire got out to bear witness.

The other knights trickled into the dining room, perching where they could, looking grimly expectant, impassive - except Avita clanking quietly in the kitchen, as though eavesdropping as she prepared something for Lathon. Well, I shouldn't use the word eavesdropping, I suppose.

"I think…I think he's dead," Lathon answered, his dark skin paling considerably. The demons of his experience showed beneath his expression. They found something, something terrible. "At first things went well. He prayed at all the shrines, and received a vision. A disturbing vision." Lathon leaned on the table, before straightening again, pacing like a nervous cat. "After that, he said that Sir Berich's tomb was in Underpall Cave - which is no cave, but some kind of buried keep."

"I've heard of it." I answered, to the surprise of others. Some caverns, caves, ruins and fortresses have very nasty reputations. Underpall Cave is one of them. The first couple levels are cleared out periodically by the Fighters Guild, or by freestyle adventurers. Very occasionally by the Mage's Guild - but they usually contract us. But the lower vaults claim many lives, most people stay out of them. The few who escape the lower vaults don't go back. "It's an evil place – even Necromancers haven't been known to inhabit any deeper than the first level. If they go further, its short exploration of the second, but no deeper."

People goggled, which made me sigh. "The Fighters Guild was contracted four years ago to clear out a pack of Necromancers. The sent two of the Einarson boys and a half-dozen Imperial Battlemages." I answered. I wasn't able to go on that mission, being contracted on another job. "Boogey-stories say there's a very powerful, angry guardian in the deep levels."

Lathon nodded as Avita brought some of Geimund's stew, bread, and a bowlful of sweetrolls. A moment later, she returned to the kitchen, then back to the dining room with wine and water. "Sit." She guided the squire to the table and pushed on his shoulders until his knees collapsed, dumping him awkwardly on the bench.

"Why Underpall, though?" Avita frowned, evidencing she'd heard plenty, though it was never my intention to cut her out. "If it's got such a nasty reputation. Surely a cleric, or a group of them could clear…"

"It's full of necromancers," Lathon answered. "At least, an advance guard, when we were there. No doubt the rest will have moved in between then and now." He looked apologetically at me.

"Necromancers we can deal with. Eat your stew." I reasoned.

Lathon began to stir it disinterestedly. "Sir Roderic said he'd learned that Sir Berich was once a questing knight, like us. He found the Greaves and Sword of the Crusader, but then turned to evil."

I've heard a snippet about this. I think it's time for me to talk to the ghosts in the basement. "Sir Roderic hoped to find the Relics within Sir Berich's tomb. And he did." Lathon swallowed, then shoved the food away, as though the smell were making him sick. "But we also found a terrible guardian -- the wraith of Lord Vlindrel..that's Sir Berich." I almost couldn't hear Lathon, his voice trailed off so much.

"It's all right, Lathon," I reached forward across the table, touching his arm reassuringly.

"A grand wraith?" Gukimir looked at me. "Sounds messy."

"I don't think it's a grand wraith, just one pissed off knight." Still, if it's had thousands of years to stew, it won't be an easy fight. I can only hope that there aren't too many more ghosts to augment his strength – like at Sancre Tor. I am _never_ letting my armor get that slimed up again.

Lathon took a few minutes to collect himself, picking up a slice of bread, but not eating it. Rather, he peeled the soft innards away from the crust, rolling it into little balls which he stacked methodically on the side of his plate. "I'm sorry. I remember Sir Roderic saying something about the Sword, before we went to Underpall...it may be important."

"What did he say?" I asked, watching the pile of bread balls grow.

"He was worried that the Sword may have been turned to evil. That it may have to be reconsecrated on the altar of its creator, the divine Arkay." I looked away from Lathon.

Getting up, I nodded. "I want you to stay here, Lathon, at the Priory. Get some rest." Holding up a hand when the knights showed signs of wanting to discuss plans _now_, I shook my head. "Let the poor man rest," I reasoned. "We can discuss this later. Meanwhile…" I frowned. "I need some answers."

"It's too late to travel," Areldur spoke up for the first time. His tone indicated he didn't want me travelling, alone, in my current condition.

"I'm not going far." I answered, suspecting again that these knights don't know about the ghosts in the basement. "Please, eat, rest if you can." Getting to my feet I headed otherwise wordlessly for the basement, and the undercroft, my ghost joining me at the foot of the stairs, blowing in a tired sort of way. "You and me both," I muttered, aware that talk had started up again - with Avita and Areldur arguing over Black Marsh sleeping sickness, or whether I was just sleepwalking.

"My lady! Wait!"

Lathon came hurrying down the stairs, tripping a little as he negotiated the last one, still clutching his bundle. "I…I forgot." More like stress drove it from his mind. I stopped walking. "This…is from Sir Rogeric. He said…whatever you might have said to the contrary, you were the one we needed." Oh great. "Before…before the wraith cut Rogeric down with the Sword..."

"_What_? He…it used a _consecrated _weapon?" You missed that detail. Sickness quite apart from anything the gauntlets' curse has thrown at me so far welled up in my stomach.

"That's why Roderic thought…oh, sorry." Lathon flushed.

"Never mind, it doesn't matter," I responded reassuringly, regretting my lapse of composure. "Go ahead."

"These are the greaves. We recovered them before we found…that _thing_." This time I saw anger, though not at me.

"The greaves?"

Lathon unwrapped them. "He shouted at me to take them. I wanted to stay..." Lathon's expression of grief and torn conscience made me look away. It's a look I know very well, having worn it for a very long time.

"You did right. At least this way, we know where to go." I soothed. "He won't have died for nothing, I promise."

Lathon looked at the greaves, but I continued to watch him. "They've changed since he put them in my keeping - got lighter as I tried to find you. I never would have done," he continued, "if I hadn't run afoul of…of something on the road."

My blood chilled. "What something?" I looked at Lathon, who swallowed uncomfortably. "Listen, I'm used to seeing and hearing all kinds of weird shit. I don't think what you tell me will be all that shocking."

"I saw a man, in a hooded cloak, and robes. He stood in the middle of the road. I slowed my horse and…the animal went nuts. Didn't stop galloping until we were here…wherever here is." He added. "I think he must be some kind of hedge wizard..."

"There are enough competent people here to take care of a hedge wizard," I assured Lathon. Hmm. The appearance of robed strangers sounds more than coincidental. I, however, don't agree about the hedge wizard bit.

"I also wanted to ask you…" Lathon pressed on, as if afraid I might walk off again. "for a…a favor. Boon." He corrected himself. I know what this is about. "Although I know I don't deserve it." When I said nothing, Lathon took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "Would you make me a Knight of the Nine? I want to dedicate myself to ridding the world of evil. I owe it to Sir Roderic."

"You know I'm not a knight myself?" I asked.

"Not _technically_…" he agreed. "But as far as anyone else is concerned, you might as well be. You've got the qualities of a knight, at least. Roderic said he saw it."

With a sigh I nodded. "All right, you're in…" something, not my ghost, tugged at my conscience. "How's your stomach?" I finally asked, sizing Lathon up.

"Huh?"

This isn't the time for 'huh?'. "I want to know if I show you something creepy, if you'll panic or not." I answered grimly.

"I won't run, if that's what you're asking." Lathon assured me, though not as though I'd offended him.

"Good." I handed the greaves back. "These don't go to me. You can put them with the rest of the armor. This way." Starting forward, I listened as Lathon followed. The undercroft lit as we entered, the air hanging cold and unnaturally still. "Just ahead there," I pointed to where the armor of the Crusader – including the Boots – now hung.

Lathon's expression was a mix of awe, reverence, and mild pride as he fixed the greaves to the stand supporting the rest of the suit, then walked over to examine the relief. "Umaril the Unfeathered versus Pelinal Whitestrake." I announced.

"Sir Roderic told me…" Lathon responded. "So, what's the creepy part…" He frowned.

"Ailirah. Just Ailirah." I answered the unspoken question. Lathon frowned, but nodded. I nodded back. Here's the creepy part. "Sir Amiel? I need a word." My words echoed slightly in the stone room.

Lathon gave an 'eep' as the knights manifested very sedately for ghosts, though I think they look a little bit…better than the last time I saw them.

"You've been collecting knights." Amiel announced.

"Indeed."

"And more," Casimir shuddered, before turning his face to the floor. He must sense the curse on me.

"Forget that for a moment. I want to talk to you about Sir Berich." Lathon looked highly unnerved, though true to his word he hadn't panicked. He merely edged over towards my shoulder, trying to watch the ghosts in turn, to make sure they didn't attack.

At the name a shiver ran thought the knights, and one of them stepped forward, as if to tell me he was one I should address. "We think we found him," I made the statement sound fairly ambiguous. They do _not _need another thing to anchor them to this half life of theirs. "And we think there's something wrong the Sword. Why might that be?"

Amiel sighed, like a death rattle.

"I..." The ghost who'd stepped forward began, but Amiel shook his head.

"No." The former leader of the group looked in my direction, his eyes gleaming slightly more green, as if he were somehow coalescing. "It seems that he fell further into evil than even I had feared. I have no doubt that it all began on the day that he left the Order with the Sword and Greaves. Sir Caius tried to stop him." Amiel motioned to the ghost who had moved to get my attention. "They fought, and Sir Berich slew Sir Caius with the holy Sword, on the Priory steps."

Here Caius stepped forward. "You should know," he interrupted boldly, though his voice still echoed, as if from across a great distance. "When Sir Berich said he would take his Relics with him to war, and would not listen to Sir Amiel's pleas, I allowed my anger to get the best of me. I was the one who drew weapon first against Sir Berich. He merely defended himself, and proved the better swordsman. And now, because of me...evil has claimed his very soul." Caius concluded, before falling somberly silent again.

"That was the end of the old Order. Many of Sir Berich's friends left with him." Amiel continued. "I tried to hold the rest together, but it was no use. If you destroy the wraith that Sir Berich has become, you will be doing him a service. You must free him from the evil that has ensnared him."

Looking at Lathon, I flicked my eyes towards the exit. "Thank you for telling me this." With that we withdrew, Lathon leading the way.

"That was creepy." Lathon declared as I shut the Undercroft door behind us.

"Chit-chatty ghosts always are." I muttered. I'm so used to them simply attacking out of hand.

"I'd like to go with you. To avenge Sir Roderic." Lathon announced.

"I'm leaving for Kvatch in the morning. You may come, if you like." I responded.

--A--


	88. Chapter 88

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Eighty-Eight

--A--

Kvatch is out of the way with regards to where Lathon and I are headed, but I have one of those gut feelings. One which proved accurate. No sooner had Lathon and I arrived in the courtyard then Tevyn came tearing out, looking distressed and harassed, his habit flopping about in the stiff breeze ruffling the city. "Countess," he bowed perfunctorily as I slid off Mori's back.

"Bad news?" I didn't bother with pleasantries, but took the papers Tevyn held tightly in hand.

"Not quite. Mara's Chapel in Bravil was attacked," Tevyn shook his head, holding out the parchment.

First Dibella, now Mara... "Damn. How bad?" I scanned the note, but the writing was hurried – the briefest dispatch possible, from the Count of Bravil, Regulus Terrentius. I suspect it's one of seven or eight such dispatches. The uneven, hastily applied seal next to the signature is so off-center, the edge almost missed the wax.

"Bad. Like in Anvil. I've not gone to investigate myself but..." He shook his head. Despite his responsibilities here, I found myself fairly sure he would have liked to investigate in person. I wish I had someone else to leave in charge.

"_Damn_." I flipped to the next piece of paper, this one in Julius' hand.

"That message is from your brother Julius in Leyawiin," Tevyn announced as I read. "Also, Chancellor Ocato begs you to stop in the Imperial City, on your way to wherever you're going. He's had an unusually hard time locating you, once you disappeared off the beaten track." Tevyn's tone suggested he had some concern, but that he was unwilling to question me too closely, as I was neither broken down in tears, nor raging like a Khajiiti diplomat.

They're given to expounding opinions and giving very passionate monologues. You might want a Dunmer lawyer to represent you if you're accused of some crime, but if you're innocent, you want a Khajiiti judge – they're used to looking through the cloud of chatter and finding the gleaming nuggets of truth. Khajiit tend to be talkative by nature, and it's a trait reflected in their politics, and political methods. It also means they're some of the best filibusters – to use a despairing Ocato's word – in the Empire. So don't let them get into it, if you can help it. Otherwise they go on and on and on…like I'm doing now. Only louder.

"It's because he's not part of the current events. Not just anyone can find the place," I mumbled, sighing heavily. We lost Bumph, and Breezy both. They never went back to Bruma, but apparently were protecting the Chapel in Bravil. They were found…they were found hung by the heels from the rafters, killed by their own weapons. Or so Julius says. I suspect he's spared me the more graphic details.

He continues that I shouldn't head for Bravil for the funerals – Bumph and Right-Wind would understand – but should kick Umaril's ass with all speed, haste, and great vigor. Repeatedly if possible. "What's Ocato want?" There's no note from him in this handful.

"He needs you, and this is from him in his own words, to chew the asses of the idiots, then get on with your job." Tevyn answered, as dignified as possible.

"Did he really say 'asses'?" I asked, feeling torn between shaking my head – it must be bad if he wants me to show up specifically to chew people out – and annoyance at all the corrections for my language I've received. Well, I suppose he doesn't swear as often as I do…so I should cut him some slack.

"We have to pass the Imperial City to get where we're going," Lathon mumbled.

"Yes," I agreed. "We'll stop here for tonight, tomorrow in the Imperial City. We'll ride hard, so be ready." What I didn't point out was my own state of fatigue. I don't think I could press on, even if we had the daylight to spare. It's harder travelling through the wilderness than on an Imperially funded, well-maintained road.

"I'll have your aide seen to," Tevyn said as Lathon immediately was escorted off by a pair of the household staff, "And your horses," he waved to the stablemen before escorting me off by the arm.

"Lathon…" I started, trying to shake the weariness creeping up on me.

"I need to speak with you, Countess," Tevyn answered quietly.

I know that tone. "Right, what else?"

"You've had a message from Millona Umbranox. She says your friend the Prophet has disappeared. No one saw him leave the city, all his things are gone. They suspect – though they didn't know to word it in such a way – that he disappeared close to the same time the Chapel of Mara was attacked." Tevyn finished.

"He'll turn up again," I reasoned grimly. If I trust my guts – and I intend to – he'll show up at the Priory of the Nine. In fact, I'm almost certain he's the apparitions that keep steering or chasing people to the Priory – an indistinguishable figure, cloaked and hooded. What I'm not sure of, is whether he's a ghost of some sort, or just the average divine or semi-divine messenger. Still – when I see him, I'll tell him _he's_ late. If he's really a ghost or something similar, we'll see if he gets the joke.

"You're not well," Tevyn noticed further along.

"I'm tired…if you can arrange that I don't have to face a crowd in the dining hall, or the dining hall at all, I'll tell you the whole story, if you like. Ugh…before my eyes start slamming shut."

--A--

Lathon and I also spent the night in the Imperial City, as Ocato's guests. It took me five minutes prior to leaving the next day to tell the Elder Council, in effect, if they wanted to continue to sit on the Council, and not find themselves licking the underside of an Ayleid boot, they'd better not drag me back here for no damn reason at all, or to discuss matters they had no clue about. There is no need for a committee, a review, a discussion or anything like that. _I'm handling it._

And I said all this very colorfully, in small, four letter words they can all understand, even if they like to pretend they don't so they can gape appalled at the blunt nature of Countess Kvatch.

Ocato, however, smiled the whole time, like a self-satisfied cat (is there any other kind?) and thanked me when it became apparent I was done name-calling and breaking up the political permafrost he'd found himself immured in.

"Anything else?" I asked, still rather harassed, and still giving out glares with Dremora-red eyes to the Elder Council.

"The vote..." One of the Councilmen pointed out.

"Ocato's got my vote. I disagree with you, today, on principle alone. Now if you'll excuse me, I have real _work _to do. Oh, Ocato – would you please," I remember to say please, "put a band of legionnaires at the Temple of the One. I don't want anything _bad_ to happen there." I gave him a significant look.

The last thing Umaril really wants to do – whether he knows it or not – is order one Auroran's foot in that temple, because Martin is there. And if anything happens…Umaril will _wish _he had two Daedric Princes breathing down his neck, instead of me kicking down his door.

Ocato smiled. "I've already done so, but will happily redouble the guard."

Nodding, I swept out.

"Are they always like that?" Asked a very skeptical Lathon, who'd listened at the door.

"Worse. Usually I'm not allowed to tell them where to shove their personal agendas in such eloquent terms," Lathon snorted here in agreement, though he looked highly amused by it, or at least, by their expressions once I'd finished. "I swear, it's amazing they haven't run this empire into the ground in…in the time they've been allowed to…" I shook my head. I can hardly think in that direction without thinking that Martin – displaying his usual good sense – would have gotten rid of a lot of them.

And I have the dirty little secrets to make it happen – excepting Ocato, who of all of them, has kept his nose cleanest. Relatively speaking, the mer's a gardener at heart, after all. Ways and means, and policy aside, I do like Ocato.

"How come they've lasted so long if they're all idiots?"

"They're not all idiots. Most of them are idiots. Blame Emperor Uriel for them. Most of them were probably his pick." To think I used to think he was just a nice old man. Now it's quite clear to me he was going senile and let Ocato run things with the Empire's blessings to do so.

--A--

Underpall Cave proved wholly devoid of living necromancers – though the bodies of the dead still remained. That'll make Archmage Traven happy – the man hates Necromancers more than I hate mushrooms (very allergic). Happy or not, it makes _me_ nervous.

"Why haven't the rest come by now?" Lathon murmured, keeping his voice down as we slipped through velvety shadows towards the Keep in Underpall Cave.

"I don't know…" I find it disturbing, though I can easily come up with a justification: they might be, or be affiliated with the covey of necromancers we cleared out of Fort Bulwark. Cults of necromancers setting up house in two locations rumored to host powerful artifacts? And tied into the fact Meridia doesn't like Necromancers, and she shouldn't like me, seeing is to how I'm going to have an honest attempt at kicking her champion's ass…

I wonder. Did she expect the Ayleids to triumph over the slave uprising, that things wouldn't – dare I use the word? – _change_. She hasn't shown herself averse to men or mer since – so maybe she simply accepted the change of the status quo. If that's the case, I can see her – Daedra Overlord that she is – using one enemy to purge another. It would probably appeal to her.

I do find her lack of intervention, past the appearance of her Aurorans _extremely_ disturbing. Nothing to harass the Prophet, who told the tale that might bring someone to threaten the champion Meridia chose so long ago. Nothing against the knights streaming into the Priory of the Nine, who might work as a team against said champion. No earnest efforts to derail me from finding Pelinal's artifacts. No assassination attempts – nor, as far as I can tell, any attempts to get help from any of the Daedra who specialize in assassinations, murders, and other untimely accidents.

The only trouble I've had is a divine curse, and one of Mehrunes Dagon's flunkies catching up to me. I notice he's keeping his head down. Smart Dremora.

Back to Meridia: there are a lot of ghosts. And necromancers in unexpected places. Zombies, skeletons, angry wraiths…I didn't think most Daedric Princess had a concept of fairness. Or is she storing up her influences, to strike at a more opportune time, once I've cleared so many of the things she so detests?

My haunting, invisible because of Lathon's presence, blew softly on the back of my neck. And what about _you_? Though I'm glad to have you. I've never met such a sweet, harmless, cowardly ghost in all my years. Your magicka feels funny too, though I can't place it. It's unfamiliar and yet…I don't know.

"There it is," Lathon stopped us.

Underpall Keep looks to be built into the far wall of Underpall Cave. It's always been here, but as I say, it's not the sort of place most people go. It's not got as evil a reputation as Miscarcand, possibly because fewer people would go looking for an angry wraith lord type undead thing if there was no mention of great treasure.

And Roderic only found the place through a vision, which makes me think the Sword might be one of those 'lost' artifacts. Not like Tiber Septim's armor, which was exactly where it ought to be. Guarded by ghosts.

There are many stories about Underpall Keep, and why it's underground the way it is – it certainly wasn't built that way. Most involve it 'being sunk away from the light of day' after it fell into evil. Given its location, and the condition of the outside of it, this actually makes perfect sense.

"I'll go first…the way I got out was shorter than the way going in." Lathon volunteered, but his voice wavered slightly.

"Okay, I'm going to stay close, though." Putting a hand on his shoulder, I waited for him to start forward, Frostreaver loose in my other hand. Chaining people like this is good for people who are jittery, or unused to dungeon diving. It's a reassurance, but it also lets them know exactly where you are, and Lathon's breathing has taken on a progressively more shuddering quality since we came in sight of the keep. I don't want him to panic – that's just the pragmatist in me, it has nothing to do with my estimations of his courage.

After all: he came back here. He certainly didn't have to. That alone says something to me.

Roderic's body lay near a large stone sarcophagus, probably the tomb of Sir Berich's corporeal remains. The evidences are that Roderic put up a hell of a fight. Lathon's breath caught when he caught sight of his master, then he went very pale. "If you can't hold it, go back up the passage. It's all right," I gave him a gentle nudge in that direction.

"Mm mm." Despite the way he held his mouth clamped shut, the way he seemed to have trouble swallowing or indeed breathing, Lathon stood by.

Roderic's wounds are surprisingly usual. About what I'd expect to see from a sword-blow, though not quite what I'd expect from a ghost. It occurs to me, almost belatedly, I might want to close Roderic's glassy eyes. "Listen," I got to my feet after arranging Roderic's body in a more dignified manner. "We'll come back for his body, but we can't do anything for him now, except to get the Sword, reconsecrate it, and find Umaril. I don't think he'd want us to waste time, if it meant letting our enemy get the upper hand."

I wouldn't. If I'm dead, I don't need my body anymore, and if there's an ass-kicking waiting in the wings, by all means, please do that first.

"Right – the wraith…it's probably gone back this.."

Holding up a hand for him to wait, I crouched near the ground, edging towards the wall, then, almost on hand and knees, I peered about the doorway. It took a moment for my darkvision to shift from the magelight we shared – one of mine, but dim to mimic the lights already present, so as not to alert the wraith before we were ready for it.

The wraith and the sword glowed brilliantly. The wraith faced away from Lathon and I, blissfully unaware of the living slinking about in his tomb. The sword may have gone through Roderic's armor like a knife through mluo cheese (ick), but I noticed earlier Roderic's equipment wasn't exactly the best. The average Fighters Guild agent has better – which explained why he fell so quickly.

Pulling Lathon back, well away from Roderic's body and the ghost, I considered. "You have any magicka?" I asked, flexing my fingers, feeling the fiery tingle of the power for a flame spell rush into them.

"Not enough to be useful," Lathon responded.

"Can you cast a fireball? That's all I need to know." I've got an idea – now, if he's actually from Hammerfell, we might have a problem. If, however, he's a local boy, we're in good shape. "Just a little one?" I wheedled.

"Ye-es." Lathon nodded. "A little one."

"Good – you're quick on your feet, though?"

"Yeah, why?"

Grabbing Lathon's shoulder, I put our heads together. "Okay, here's the plan. I'm going to double back – I saw a fork back there, and I see what looks like another entrance that way," I pointed in to the solid wall, to indicate vague direction. "Now, when I get to the door, I'm going to cast a fireball at the wraith – that's your cue to find cover. Once he starts going for me, hit him in the back with a fireball, or something he'll _feel_. No ice."

"Then he'll come after me…" but a grin was spreading over Lathon's expression. "And then you'll hit him..and he won't know which of us to go after."

"Likely he'll go for me, I can hit pretty hard. Just keep hammering at him if he does. He's not a lich, but let's not make a rookie's mistakes. Just don't let him hit you with that sword."

"No problems," Lathon glanced in the direction of Roderic's body ahead of us.

"Right, wait for me, and remember to give yourself plenty of room. Cover where you can find it." With Lathon's nod, I took off at a trot, doubling back the way we'd come.

My haunting appeared as soon as we were out of Lathon's line of sight. "So, what do _you_ think?" I inquired quietly, glad of the violet light.

The little glow bobbed up and down in which could be assent or simply apprehension.

"Don't worry, I used to do this for a living." This earned me a puff of air on the back of the neck. "Well, all the same, keep your…uh…keep out of the way. I wouldn't want you to get hurt." An aggrieved breeze against my cheek. "Well, I'm getting fond of you. Who cares if it means I'm a little crazy?"

Another puff of air, and my haunting swept forward, the light shrinking to the size of a firefly before vanishing entirely. See? I'm not the only one who can play stealthily. And to think, I used to have no concept of sneaking around.

Drawing the spell back to my hand, the warmth of it burning reassuring in my fingertips, I picked out the ghost, still drifting aimlessly, unaware of its danger. Not too strange, perhaps, how easily flame-based spells come to hand. Another of Oblivion's gifts? Or maybe I'm simply attributing it to Oblivion, since everyone knows ice spells and ghosts don't mix, and Oblivion is a fiery place…well, the Deadlands are. I suppose it changes depending on which realm you're in. Someone wrote a book on the Planes, but that's hardly the point. Just now the point is, the cold-affinity ghosts have makes Frostreaver the equivalent of a normal weapon, though it still bites into ectoplasm.  
Leaping out of my hiding place, my first shot went wide, exploding in cindery dust against one of the rocky pillars in the room. The Wraith gave an ear-rupturing shriek, but my second attack did not miss.

The wraith got halfway across the room before a feeble, _extremely_ feeble fireball landed where its feet ought to be. If the saturation wasn't serious and either of us had a sense of humor, the wraith and I might have laughed.

However, neither of us has a sense of humor, but the wraith did turn his back on me – allowing me to scramble for a more secure position before the wraith decided – as expected – I was the bigger threat.

_Boom._

A swift duck saved me form the blossom of frost exploding behind my head.

_Ksst-kung! _The next fireball struck the wraith's chest. It flailed, clawing at itself with one hand, waving the sword about in the other.

_Bnik_. At least Lathon's spell hit it this time. He wasn't kidding about weak spellwork. Still, it got the wraith's attention, albeit probably making the creature wonder if this fighter's heart was really in the attack or not.

Throwing myself to the ground, the ice spell from the crafty wraith nearly knocked me backwards. I'll not be surprised if it left a residue of snow atop my head. Still, from my belly-down position I shoved myself up on my elbows and found the wraith bearing down on me, shrieking with an unholy wail that made me wonder when my eardrums would start to bleed.

Forcing myself to my feet I dodged the blow with the sword and jammed my hands into the ectoplasmic body, immobilizing its sword arm, the other hand closing over its ghostly throat. My hands slid into the ectoplasm, but only so for. My attempts to go for the sword hilt, effectively tearing it away from the wraith, failed. But the flames spell I forced into the thing's body made the ectoplasm roil and bubble, gelatinous and foul-smelling, dripping to the floor as if melting. The wraith's scream of impending victory changed to a wail as it tore free of my flaming hands, knocking me across the side of the head with the sword hilt.

Staggering backwards, the site of the blow swelling and bleeding, I fell to the ground, only to see Lathon's sword punch through the wraith in a spray of ectoplasm. And ectoplasm makes wounds _sting_.

Transfixed by Lathon's sword the wraith turned, slowly, Lathon pulling the weapon free. My hand instinctively grabbed Frostreaver, slicing upwards I gained my knees. Spinning the blade, the momentum peaked as I gained my feet, dragging the sword diagonally through, as Lathon pulled his back.

The wraith vanished in a spatter of boot-mucking ectoplasm.

Lathon's sweaty face bore a mix of distaste (ghosts are such messy kills), grim determination, and a gleam of pride.

"Good one." I panted, swallowing hard, touching my head. My fingers came back bloody.

"Are you okay?" Lathon asked.

"Oh yeah, he just winged me." I shrugged. "It stings, but it's okay. You did good – he'd be proud of you." I added.

Lathon swallowed, but nodded. "Not much of a mage," he declared ruefully, walking over to the burn mark on the floor where his first spell fell short.

"Hey, I didn't ask for a great spell, I asked if you could do it. When I started out, I thought I was a mundane." I picked up the Sword. The blade looked tarnished, dingy, and felt faintly unhealthy. The ghosts of Berich's anchors to this world, spite, malice, anger, whatever, still lingered, infused in the blade. It's not as nasty-feeling as Mehrunes' Razor, but it's definitely a contender.

Lathon looked up. "What happened?"

I shrugged. "I fell in with the right people, who knew how to coax the magicka out of me."

Lathon looked as though he'd have liked to ask, then stopped, dawning realization crossing his face.

"Come on, this goes to Arkay, right?" I asked.

Lathon nodded.

I began to bite my lip. "Do you want to come with me, or do you want to send the good news to the Priory?"

Lathon squirmed.

"I suspect we'll be hunting Umaril soon – the more time the others have to prepare the better. Your knight is avenged, I don't expect you to come with me, just to get a sword cleaned." I added.

Lathon looked from the sword to Roderic's body. "I'll meet you at the Priory…you're sure you'll be all right?"

"If Mori's still tethered out front, I'll be fine." Honestly, I do believe he's needed more at the Priory than with me – let them get themselves prepared, do what they have to do. I'm ready as is – the worst Umaril can do is kill me.

But he goes first. Age before beauty, and when it comes to moldy, crusty Ayleids, there aren't many things older than them.

--A--


	89. Chapter 89

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Eighty-Nine

--A--

By the time I could see the Priory of the Nine, after consecrating the sword and stopping the Aurorans from sacking the Chapel of Arkay, their idea of a last-ditch effort to stop me from consecrating the sword (I hope Umaril's sweating slingstones right now). However, the battle to stop the Aurorans has me worried, I mean _genuinely worried _about my ability to get to wherever Umaril is, and still have energy to spare to fight him.

My haunting took care of the knock to the head I took from Berich's ghost, as well as the bumps, scuffs and bruises I took at the Chapel. Admittedly, the fight there was less intense than others, as the priests were ready, the entire Fighters Guild was ready, and I was certainly ready. I almost felt sorry for the Aurorans. Almost.

My sympathy for people waving Daedric battle axes in my direction is pretty limited.

Sliding off Mori's back, I found my fumbling hands relieved by Thedret, who tied Mori up and helped me put him comfortably in the stables. "You've got good timing!" Thedret prattled enthusiastically. With the weariness of my journey on my shoulders, his enthusiasm is not only lost on me, it's also irritating.

"Not something I hear often," I grunted, patting Mori's back as I slipped the very full feedbag Thedret handed me over Mori's nose. Ugh, I could kill for a shoulder massage right about now. I'm dying. Seriously, this time.

Mori stomped the ground with one hoof before he applied himself to his feedbag. He ignored me when I patted his shoulder.

Thedret's words suddenly started to make sense. "_What_?" Blinking tiredness from my eyes, and having to resort to using my fist to rub it out of them, I scowled. "Good timing for _what_?" I repeated a little more coherently.

"The Prophet," Thedret explained patiently, though excitedly, almost jittering on the spot. "He seemed to know you were coming...told me to wait for you. And here you are! Come. He is preaching to the assembled Knights in the Chapel. You should speak to him at once." Thedret put a hand on my shoulder when I simply frowned. Is that how I used to sound? All perky 'let's go do this _right now_'?

I being to feel a deep sympathy for Jauffre, Baurus and Martin who had to deal with that perkiness.

Yawning and stretching in an attempt to work myself into a state of better alertness, I let him guide me to the Chapel, where indeed, the Prophet stood, facing the assembled knights. I noticed here, what I missed about Thedret in my sleepy state. They're all wearing armor similar to the stuff I found Amiel's corpse in, fine chainmail, with the red emblem over the chest. I stopped asking questions about these things, and when I looked, I found a new face, sitting quietly in a corner.

Well, there's number nine. I was beginning to wonder about that. "You're late," the Prophet announced, giving me a weighty look.

"Bollocks," I answered to the mild amusement and surprise of the others. Throwing myself down in the space in the front row – the only space available and the one I did not want – I glowered balefully up at him. "I'm right on time, alive and kicking." A yawn broke up this rather clever answer, making me blink furiously again. "Ugh."

The Prophet looked mildly bemused. I hope to Aetherius there's a spot of time available for a _nap_, if not a good night's sleep. I'm beat, I'm tired of riding, and hauling all these relics back and forth is starting to do a number on my shoulders.

And because this place is packed, my ghost isn't even blowing on the back of my neck, to let me know things are still okay. The Prophet needlessly waved his hands for silence before addressing me. Please be a short sermon, I'll listen all you want once Umaril's dead, but I'm dead tired right now, and not up to long speeches.

I sound absolutely pathetic, but we _all _have our days.

"You have stepped from the humble shadows of obscurity and into legend." No, no, just say I did a good job, tell me to hit the rack, and that it's an early day tomorrow type thing. _Please._ "No feat you have accomplished in your life compares to what you have become. You are an embodiment of Pelinal Whitestrake, the bane of Umaril the Unfeathered."

Ugh.

No, I'd like to think I'm Ailirah of Leyawiin, or Ailirah the Gatewalker. I don't want to be like Pelinal – he was a crazy berserker with a chip on his shoulder. I know I have a chip on my shoulder, but comparing us is still an insult. "The time has come for you to fulfill your destiny. Umaril lies hid in the ancient fane of Garlas Malatar. You must go there and destroy him."

"Are we…"when the Prophet raised his eyebrows at me, as if to say in the end there was no 'we' only 'me'. Damn, but I changed the question, "Am I ready to face him, then?" From that expression on the old man's face alone I get the cold feeling even if I take the others, this will end up a one-on-one fight.

I think I expected it, way deep down, all along, it's just chilling to hear it confirmed.

"No. Should you face Umaril, you would suffer the same fate as Pelinal!" The Prophet looked genuinely shocked I hadn't caught on yet. Look, I'm tired, and I'm slow on the uptake. Either start making sense or say benediction so I can get some sleep. I'm tired and I'm cranky. "But times change and even the shape of the divine itself must change with it. Where once there were Eight, now One more stands with them, and they have become Nine."

"Talos." I breathed, beginning to chew my lip.

"Aye. With the apotheosis of Tiber Septim, the face of the divine was transformed. Talos ascended and the Eight became Nine. So, although you wear the armor of the gods, it is incomplete - a relic of the old ways and the old gods." The Prophet's voice took on further lucidity, and I found myself staring almost unfixedly at his eyes, as he stared back at mine.

It occurs to me…I don't even know what color they really are. Which makes me think, more and more, he's not exactly human. What _are_ you? You're not like my haunting...never mind. I don't need to think about origins right now: I need to think about Umaril.

"As a proven guardian of this realm, a warrior the likes of which have not been seen in millennia, Talos grants you his sacred Blessing." The Prophet reached forward, touching my hair. For a moment I felt something wholly unfamiliar, then a weight lift from my shoulders so quickly I nearly fell forward off my bench.

Looking up the Prophet nodded, as if he knew of the strength rushing back to me, the sudden burst of energy and a ferocity to pick up a fight that is completely human, and was once one of my hallmarks. The results of the lifting of the curse, accompanying the gauntlets. My mind pushed out of the mire of exhaustion like a diver from the bottom of as lake, breaking the surface to gulp down fresh air.

"With the ancient gifts of the Eight, and the new gift of the One, you are ready to face Umaril."

Getting to my feet I nodded, feeling an oddly instinctive spell echoing lazily in the back of my mind. No words, simply something to focus upon. Like and unlike Sanguine's prank, this is similar, but at the same time decidedly more pleasant. "What does this Blessing do, exactly?" See? I do learn. I should have asked Sanguine – not that I expect he would have answered me. Fetcher.

"It will allow you to follow Umaril into the spirit realm upon his death. It will allow you to destroy him, body and soul, utterly and for all time." The Prophet answered gravely.

So, the true danger isn't in him killing my body. It's in him striking at my soul. A shiver I couldn't quite repress ran through me at the thought. Then again, with my soul so Oblivion-twisted as it is, he might take one look at me and just pass out. That would certainly make things easier.

"You must first kill his living body. While beyond the power of most mortals, this is the lesser of your tasks." I knew it. "Umaril's nature allows his spirit to escape into Oblivion after death. This is what Pelinal learned upon defeating Umaril the first time. But you can do what Pelinal could not." The Prophet continued earnestly. "The Blessing of Talos will allow you to follow Umaril's spirit when it leaves his body. This you must do, and you must not fail. You will not, because the Nine fight with you!" The Prophet finished, though I suspect the last is more for the benefit of my knights and possibly myself.

Ignoring the possibility of failure tends to make one careless, and I've learned a bit about overconfidence this year, and will never again assume I can't lose. You may just lose everything you hold dear.

The knights murmured something in response, but the words were lost to my haze of deep thought.

"You said Garlas Malatar. Where is that?" I asked, frowning.

"Garlas Malatar was the westernmost outpost of the Ayleid Empire. It watched over what we now call the Abecean Sea. Since his return, Umaril has taken it as his lair. Your Knights will assemble at Garlas Malatar," this was evidently directed at the others. I suspect the Prophet has a few words for me by myself. "and await you there. Send all those who you deem worthy. Not all who enter those halls shall return. Those who fall in service of the Nine will live on forever in the halls of their fathers." The Prophet concluded.

"I don't ask anyone to go," I answered quietly. Unbidden the faces of the dead close to me swam before my face, most of them volunteers themselves. Breezy, Bumph, Blade after Blade, Jauffre, Martin...the list seems so very, very long. "Instead, I give you the choice – meet me there, or go where you will. I will not drag any man to his death." I know Umaril's tactics, though, which is part of my reason for saying this. We'll have to fight our way through the Aurorans first, then, only then, can we find Umaril. And again I have the very strong suspicion it's not 'we' but 'me'. In the end, it's one on one.

The memory of Mehrunes Dagon's shouts and the screaming roar of the Avatar almost deafened me to the real words spoken around me. One on one. And now it's my turn...

"I will go," Thedret said. Without another word, he swept out of the Chapel, followed by the others, one by one, until only the Bosmer I noticed earlier remained. Well, there goes my attempt to let them duck out of this mess.

"We've been expecting you," I announced, turning my attention to him. "If you feel so inclined, you may join their number, and go with us. No one will think the less of you if you don't."

The Bosmer looked surprised, but in my peripheral vision I could see the Prophet nodding. "You will find appropriate gear in the smithy," The Prophet declared when I said nothing else.

The Bosmer leapt to his feet, said something polite, then hurried out, so as not to be left behind.

"I see you've learned to trust your instincts." The Prophet noted.

"Sometimes things are very obvious. What else did you want to say to me, that you didn't want them to hear?" I asked, turning back to him.

The Prophet nodded again. "I notice you are not wearing the arms and armor you've recovered." His eyes swept across my commonplace clothes, bearing the marks of travel.

"I'm not a crusader. I'm not a knight…" I began, irritation creeping into my voice.

"You will be very dead if you leave the artifacts behind. They carry intrinsic Blessings of the Eight. As you are now, you carry two: the blessing of the sword, and the Blessing of Talos. That alone is not enough." The Prophet cut in. "Did you think them just for show? Or did you simply hope to avoid your destiny?"

"My destiny is clearly marked. The road ends in a black place, after Umaril proceeds me." I answered coldly. One on one. And the defending party always pays a price, or so I've observed.

"Regardless, take the artifacts." The Prophet answered. "They will pass with you, once the time comes to pursue Umaril to his last haven. Your mundane arms and armor will not." I understood this to mean the chainmail Martin gave me, and Frostreaver.

"I'm not trained with that sort of sword, or the mace. The best I can do is duel-wielded axes." I argued, knowing it was pointless.

"You'll find the weapons blessed by the Eight and One are not like the weapons of mere men. You must use them against Umaril. There is no one else to take your place, Ailirah of Leyawiin, Ailirah the Gatewalker, Ailirah the Crusader."

"_Stop that_. You've made your point," I snarled. The titles, particularly the last one, felt like lead chains about my neck. Swallowing hard I forced back resentment. "I will do what is necessary for the good of the many, as I have always done." Biting my lip I turned to storm out, then stopped. "Why hasn't Meridia intervened yet? Mehrunes Dagon's goons were all over the place, and from her we haven't heard a peep past her Aurorans."

"She has her reasons, I'm sure," the Prophet said delicately, but in a tone which indicated the matter was not up for discussion. Whether because he didn't actually know, or couldn't reveal, or whatever, I don't care.

"Ocato will need to know where I've gone."

"I will make sure he does." The Prophet answered.

Well, if you can flap around in a hood and cloak, and shepherd perspective knights where they need to go only to vanish into thin air, getting the word to Ocato is probably not that difficult.

--A--

The quiet, cool stillness of the undercroft was welcome after the warm stuffiness of the chapel. The eight ghosts stood waiting for me. "You have done us a great service, my lady," Amiel remarked.

My eyes flickered past him, a ninth knight wavered into existence towards the back of the undercroft. "Sir Berich?" I nodded.

Amiel nodded. "Indeed. Once again the eight become nine. You have our deepest gratitude."

"Don't mention it." Striding forward I stopped level with Berich. Neither of us said anything, but we didn't need to. I'm glad to bring him one step closer to rest. He's glad to be here. It shows, and shows even more tellingly when he took his place between Amiel and Caius.

The Prophet was right – the armor of the crusader, or rather the armor of the stand-in, fit as if it were a steely extension of my own hide, the sword and mace balancing oddly in my hands, but not so badly I wouldn't be able to use them. I still prefer Frostreaver, so I left my ring of summons on.

Just in case. It's not a mundane weapon, and I'm starting to recognize my bad temper as deeply rooted fear I don't want anyone to see. Fear of failure. Fear of getting one of my team killed.

"We wish you luck, Lady Knight." Amiel's voice intoned as I turned to go.

"If I succeed, will it release your souls?" I turned on the stairs, looking back at the veil of translucent man-shaped figures.

They conversed softly, a sound like curtains blowing in the wind. "I think so," Amiel finally answered. "You have done much already in unmooring our tethers to this half-life. Umaril's defeat should, I think, finish the task. Be very careful, Lady Knight."

"I will." I can put the needs of others before my own a little longer.

--A--

The dawn light reflected blazingly white off the ruins of Garlas Malatar, blindingly off the arms and armor of the assembled knights – all nine of us. Above the ruin, a statue loomed. Despite the blaze of sunlight from behind us, I feel fairly sure I know who the statue depicts. And as I'm about to meet him relatively soon, I don't intend to study it too close, lest healthy fear (or respect) or a foe become something more sinister. A little fear is good, it keeps you careful. A lot makes you clumsy.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" I asked, reminded vaguely of Martin encouraging me to tell him find someone else to take on one dangerous task or another.

A variety of agreement, or snorts of impatience greeted this.

"All right. Umaril will be as deep and as far back as he can get – he'll put his Aurorans between himself and us. They're not Dremora, but they're no easy foe. So keep an eye on each other." I declared. Preferably stay in groups of two, so you can watch each other's backs.

For a moment soft murmurs, invocations of the Nine. Looking over the waters, diamond-like with morning sun I closed my eyes.

Sweet Dibella, Mother Mara…I ask your grace.

It's all I can think of to say.

Lord Akatosh, Lord Talos…in memory of your servant.

The thought of Martin made my throat and my grip on the unfamiliar weapons grow tight. You made the brave choice, put the needs of the nameless, faceless many before your own, and the needs of the one. This one. Let's see if I have it in me to do the same.

My feet carried me into the dark, gaping passage entering Garlas Malatar, a cold determination burning in my belly that had nothing to do with Daedra, Dremora, Martin's amulet or fear.

Simple cold certainty that _this is it._

--A--


	90. Chapter 90

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Ninety

--A--

The Aurorans we expected. The Aurorans getting up after they should have _died _was not. That's how it started. The smelly ruin of Garlas Malatar held salt, decay, seawater and an army of Aurorans. The first few went down normally – it was Avita's screech of pain as one slipped up behind her, from where he lay prostrate a moment before that informed us of the unexpected danger.

Fortunately the blow was only glancing, Thedret appearing to dispatch the Auroran before it could do any further harm. Turning sharply, Frostreaver foiled an axe arcing towards me. I'm saving the fancy weapons for Umaril – all my best tricks. One might think I meant to wage a one-woman war against Mehrunes Dagon in his own Plane with the number of weapons I'm carrying.

Not today.

"They're respawning! Just like Dremora!" Areldur barked.

"Means they're drawing power from somewhere!" I shouted back, before roaring Dremora-like in the face of a startled Auroran, just before I jammed Frostreaver into the softspot behind his jawbone, pivoting to pull free. The smell of blood hung heavy, mixing nauseatingly with the smells of unclean seawater and decay.

"So what do _we_ do?" Avita demanded, healing her wounds quickly so as to continue the fight.

"All we can do! Press forward!" I barked.

I'm looking for something. A hum of Daedric magicka. A clue. Like the sense of it I could feel waiting for the Gates to manifest at Bruma. So where is it?

Despite the fact I'd never set foot in Garlas Malatar before, I know Ayleid ruins. Finding the expected gates, I knew to start looking for the mechanism to unlock them. By the time the others caught up, a wave of Aurorans following us caught up as well, held at bay by those with the ability to cast ranged spells.

The problem was, once the gates were open, the Aurorans changed tactics. "You're looking for something like a Sigil stone!" I shouted as Avita, Geimund and Gukimir were shepherded one way, and the rest of us another. "Smash it, it should stop them respawning!" I hope they heard me...

"What if you're wrong?" The Bosmer demanded, neatly skewering an Auroran which came too close.

"Then we're in really deep shit!" I shot back. "Go, go on!"

"They're trying to…" Thedret tried, bleeding from a superficial wound to the side of his head, where his helmet had cut in..

"_I know, just do it_!" I shouted, Daedric breath burning my lips, Martin's amulet suddenly cold against my skin. Thedret didn't argue, but shunted the others ahead of me, though not too far. Auroran plate isn't as thick, or durable as Daedric plate – few things are – so our weapons did more damage against the golden warriors than they could against a Dremora.

Step – the off-end vanishes into a breastplate, sinking into the soft metal. Pull-turn -- the blade comes free in a spray of gold-sheened crimson. Swipe – an Auroran jumps back. Resistance – the off-end buries itself in another. Pull, pivot, _thrust_ – and pull free. The last Auroran close enough to fight hit the ground, bleeding, shocked.

Is it so shocking to die, when you know you'll respawn again?

Hurrying forward Thedret and the other two…? "Where're Areldur and Carodus?" I demanded, unnecessarily terse, but no one seemed to notice.

"Dunno – got separated!" Lathon answered, looking pale beneath his helmet, but his eyes were hard, his jaw set.

"Come on!" Thedret barked, falling back near me to usher the other two forward.

"Take the stairs down!" I pointed, though only Thedret could see my gesture.

"The others!" The mer protested.

I know. "Look, if the Aurorans are respawning there's only one way we can go! They're driving us – the others'll meet up with..." I shrieked as Avita and the brothers nearly collided with us. "…with us eventually…" Oh…don't scare me like that! But I'm so glad to see them alive, I'll spare them the needless directive. Avita looks ready to pass out, whether from startlement or relief I don't know.

"Where's Areldur?" Avita panted, leaning forward and massaging a stitch in her belly. She's showing signs of magical overdraw. We may have a problem...

"Not with us," I answered. "You see anything like…" It's got to be here…this floor is so big, though…we could miss it and never know…

But it makes no _sense _to leave it _here_, where it would be so easy to drive us in circles…where we could stumble upon it. I don't think they meant for us to find the door.

"No, but they're driving us pretty hard…" Her expression went round, seeing something over my shoulder.

_Damn._

"Down!" I pushed indiscriminately, sending Thedret and Lathon both tripping and clattering down the first few steps of the staircase leading down to a door and the next level.

Geimund and Gukimir formed a sort of living wall on either side of me, before Gukimir gave me a push as well.

"Go on! We'll follow!" Geimund roared.

Torn between wanting to protect my knights and wanting to stop the Aurorans from respawning, I tore myself away, to follow Thedret, Avita, Lathon and the Bosmer. It occurs to me I never asked his name. "What's your name, mer?" I demanded as we hurried down the stairs.

"You want to know that _now_?" He demanded, though he gave a short bark of laughter. "It's Brellin!" Right – let's see if I can remember that, a couple minutes from now.

Thedret had the door open for us. The gust of cold, dank air, somewhat stale hit us like a wall and with similar effect. "Ugh…" I gagged.

"Oh…it's _disgusting_…" Avita moaned, raising her elbow to her nose. It evidently didn't help for she abandoned the gesture. A moment later my haunting brushed my neck. I didn't think you'd come with us. You're not a fighter…but I'm glad to have you. Courage burned in my belly, enabling me to force myself not to recognize the smells hammering at my poor nose.

"Come on…" The passage we found ourselves in remained devoid of Aurorans until we entered a large vault beyond a set of gates. But from the entrance to the large vault I could see it. Glowing with a white light, unlike a sigil stone, bulging with a magicka that felt nothing like anything I've ever felt before, a large orb on a raised plinth, atop a raised walkway. I take it back, there's a vague tang, a sizzle or vibration that normal magicka doesn't have.

"There it is!" I pointed.

"How do we get up there?" Lathon demanded.

"There'll be a door –there always is. Stairs…"

"Aurorans!" Thedret pointed. "You know this place?"

"I know Ayleid ruins! I used to recover artifacts from them for a living!" I barked. The thought that all those years of crawling around in musty, dusty ruins might have had a purpose, past my getting paid never seemed so staggering as it did now.

As if my whole life were geared for this encounter, and this alone.

"Then you go break that thing before they overwhelm us!" Thedret barked.

"I..." The price I paid for messing with things I didn't understand – the Mysterium Xarxes, those trips into the Deadlands – could those things have occurred _just_ so I could come to this moment, have the strength and resources to face this series of moments? The creation of a foe uniquely suited to battle Umaril.

"Go on! They'll probably follow you anyway – it'll be doing us a favor!" Lathon chimed in.

I'm not fully human, but I'm not Daedra either. I'm touched by Oblivion, I've tasted its powers, but my heart remains ever in the arms of the Empire. I'd live for Martin. I'd shed human and Daedra blood alike to ensure the safety of the Empire which should have been his. I'd die to destroy this last great foe and count the price an acceptable one...

"Just hold on then!" I barked, sprinting forward, giving a shout as I tore through an Auroran so viciously I heard yelps form my own teammates as Frostreaver cut deeply into his side, sliding against this spine like a knife against a loaf of bread. I barely broke stride, the thrill of the fight pounding in my ears, singing in my blood, yet it all remained control, Martin's amulet burning cold against my sweaty skin, a talisman no longer to reign in the Daedra, but a reminder of love, trust, duty fulfilled, the service to the Empire which I swore to myself to, even unto death.

A reminder of his love...the thought of which got me across the room, searching for the door.

There's the door, up the stairs…the Aurorans started to scream, screech in their own language, a sound far less uncouth than that in the Deadlands, but at the same time far more chilling. The sounds echoed against the walls, along with the shouts of the knights – _my_ knights – as they sought to distract, harass, and harry the Aurorans, buying me time.

I hit the raised walkway at a flat out run, effectively hamstringing the Auroran between me and the staircase that rose as I punched the trigger in the wall. Not truly dead he couldn't respawn, but he certainly seemed to have a whole lot of trouble regenerating, much less standing.

A scream of pain, then shouts – shouts of man and mer, of concern - sent me running with every ounce of speed I could muster.

My vision jostled and bounded as I bounded up the stairs. No sooner did I see the orb, see that the way was clear than I charged forward, full tilt, bringing Frostreaver crashing down against it. The orb exploded.

For a fraction of a second I saw Avita lying on the ground, Brellin kneeling by her, Lathon and Thedret at the fore…and in front of them my haunting, a soft but powerful magelight of dusky violet, a power almost palpable as it shone between the mortal knights and the stunned Aurorans, who didn't seem to know what to make of the light. The violent light gleamed off their armor, and in that moment I remembered Kathutet glowering past Tevyn, snarling at my ghost.

What is it about you that Daedra see as a challenge? For the postures of the Aurorans indicated a certain...indecision.

The follow through with Frostreaver was instinctive, and didn't allow me anymore than just this glimpse. Just before the explosion hit me, however, an odd globe of powdery fragments and glittering slivers of the stone. hung suspended in midair around where the stone once sat on its plinth. The energy of the explosion carried on however, knocking me back against the ground. Frostreaver fell from my hand, sliding, tipping over the ledge, but no clang of landing reached my ears. In fact, all noise suddenly stopped.

Getting to my feet, reaching for the Sword of the Crusader as I did so, I found the entire vault in a state of suspension. Everything in it, mortal or Daedra, caught in the exact second the pulse of energy from the shattered orb had hit him or her. Dust motes moved as I passed, leaving an Ailirah-shaped gap in their midst. Even the mist moved, like tracks traced in mashed potatoes, failing to reform an unbroken cloud in my wake.

Looking back, my haunting seemed as trapped by the broken stone's broken power as anyone or anything else. Even as I squinted, I thought I saw something, like the silhouette of a head against the bright light – it's about the right height – but the harder I tried to look, the less I could see. No details, just the suggestion of a shadow.

It's my haunting. He's on my side.

I walked faster, heading the only way I could now go. Umaril is waiting for me. He thinks he's fighting another Pelinal.

Think again.

--A--

Even in darkness, I could tell Umaril waited for me, had meant me to come this far, and to come alone. I could see fairly well, despite the lack of proper light – thanks to Oblivion's marks upon me – enough to know if I carried on straight ahead, I'd walk into what looked like a shallow pool. Torches of Ayleid make, like the sconces for Varla stones, stood around stone tables, or large sarcophagi casting their pale eerie light.

For the first time in my life, I ignored them, my eyes focused in the darkness above. He can wait forever – he wants me to make the first move. Gazing wide-eyed and pale into the darkness I took a step forward.

Without my haunting. Without my Frostreaver. Without my brothers. Without my Martin.

And with every reason to win.

"Stop lurking. I know you're here." Unlike Pelinal, I don't feel the need to taunt my foe into fighting me. In fact, I have no assurance he understands the words. The tone, however, is unmistakable. The torches burst into white, flickering light, leaving spots across my vision, accompanied by a sinister laugh.

Umaril the Unfeathered stood halfway up the flight of stairs ahead of me. Every inch of eight feet tall, dressed head to toe in what I suspect must be the Auroran version of heavy plate, a long sword in one hand, a sneer on his helmet's face. Not even the eyeholes looked like weak links, covered over in some sort of clear resin or strong crystal. Barely a chink in his armor…and on his pauldrons, wrought-metal embellishments, like unfeathered wings.

He's got the high ground, the advantage. My armor and weapons suddenly felt both ungainly and awkward.

Memory of Kathutet, and his uncanny power to twist perceptions swam in my mind. No, this armor is _mine _for the time being. It chose me, and I wear it. Once again, the armor hung comfortably from my shoulders, safely encasing me from head to foot. Lifting my chin in mute defiance, I glowered, waiting for the first blow to land.

"_Heca_," Umaril hissed, his tone redolent with malevolence, all the malice of centuries amassed while watching the slave race, squatters in his people's empire, breed and spread like malignant growths. If an Altmer were taken by the Dremora, warped and twisted into a parody of itself, it would sound like Umaril, when it was finally released.

"No." I planted my feet. Come and get me. You let Pelinal goad you…what will you do if I simply refuse to be impressed?

"_**Heca**_**.**" The words mean nothing, but the tone told me to get out of his way – namely by letting him lop my head off.

Again, the tone says it all. "Make me." Gazing up at him I adjusted my grip on the sword, afraid to use both sword and mace together, for reasons of balance. I want my Frostreaver.

Umaril began to laugh, a humorless laugh meant to intimidate, to frighten. The sound bounced malevolently off the walls, shattering, echoing and reforming until the chamber seemed full of it.

My feet went cold, my palms began to sweat as the pitch of his cackle rose to echo from the chamber's roof. My heart quivered. Shifting my weight onto the balls of my feet, I prepared for the spring I know has to come. The silence filling the vault when Umaril suddenly stopped laughing was almost as bad. Worse, as it raised the gooseflesh on my arms and down my sweaty back.

However, it was also a cue, so when Umaril bounded down the stairs several at a time, I was there to meet him, mindless of the pool before me, which turned out quite shallow. The blow I parried made my shoulders screech in pain. But the fact that a human woman parried his blow threw Umaril off balance. Not much, but enough so I managed to rake the Crusader's Sword across his exposed side, the sword's reach a little longer than just his arm's.

The weapon left a glittering gouge in the golden armor. Umaril hissed, upon seeing it. For a moment, behind the lenses of his helmet I thought I saw the blaze of non-human eyes. Dodging back I felt increasingly glad I'd simply left the Shield fastened across my back, rather than try to carry it. Flailing, I continued jumping away from Umaril, who seemed to take this as something to be proud of. His hissing, spitting Ayleid taunts grew louder, more confident.

Until he took a powerful lunge at me, embedding his sword on the wall, just past my shoulder. Umaril let go of it, rather than try and pull it free as I jabbed at him with the sword, leaving another mark on his armor.

All this hopping around? It's part of something I call _tactics_.

Umaril backed up, a spell forming in his hand. Dodging, I skidded on the floor, unable to tumble with the shield on my back. Umaril laughed again, striding forward to poke the singed stone his fireball hit with a toe. He didn't expect me to leap forward. He thought I'd cower, having slipped and skidded as I had. Umaril was fast, but not quite fast enough. He caught the sword by the blade, slowing it, but screeching as the weapon slit into his gauntlets, leaving a track of red-copper colored blood along its gleaming length.

How long has it been since you saw your own blood?

Umaril pushed against the sword, seeking to dislodge my footing.

Letting go of the sword, which he succeeded in throwing aside, I punched him with all my strength. His helmet crinkled around my fist, digging into whatever face lurks beneath. The lenses in his eyeholes splintered. As soon as he arched his back, hands going for his face I dove for the Crusader's Sword, turned and sprinted forward.

Umaril shrieked, failing as the weapon stalled for a fraction of a second against his armor then slid in at a steep angle, finally puncturing his cuirass. He flailed, but I dodged.

Freeing the Mace from my belt I brought it crashing mercifully fast down against his skull, crumpling the back of his helmet. Umaril toppled forward, the sword sliding somewhat free as he fell, the point driven back by the unforgiving floor, but remained embedded in the Ayleid's body.

I didn't realize I was calling the Blessing of Talos until I felt the spell burn, cold like Martin's amulet, fierce as Skyrim through my very blood. For we, the Nords, know Talos. And we know him as Ysmir.

Umaril's spirit, soul, non-corporeal being, pulled free of the body, like a swimmer pushing off from the sandy bottom of a lake. I almost didn't feel myself disconnect with my own body, grabbing onto Umaril's heel, so he dragged me along with him to whatever hidey-hole he still has. Air moved cold and fast, like knives against my armor – I can only imagine what it would do to my bare cheeks.

Within a moment, though, Umaril succeeded in kicking me in the mouth. My helmet crumpled, but not as badly as his, being made of somewhat stronger stuff.

I almost had no time to reconcile myself to my surroundings – the same ones as when Pelinal showed me where to find the helm. Umaril backhanded me so ferociously I bounced on the insubstantial air below me, as if it were a plane of clear ice. Dazed and disoriented, I screamed when he kicked me in the stomach, screeching in his horrible native tongue.

Flashes of another foe kicking me about like this played, but I don't have the same options. Rolling I managed to regain my feet, meeting Umaril's suddenly-present sword with my mace. He didn't have the sword before...like Camoran's Paradise, this must be a fragment of Meridia's realm, but a fragment tailored to Umaril.

Like, but not exactly alike.

The Crusader's Sword had not come with me. The Mace felt very flimsy, as I used both hands to parry, only to find my own blow knocked almost casually aside by the angry Ayleid. I held onto the mace, managing to turn my own momentum to my advantage. I got in under his guard, slamming the weapon against his hip.

The blow he landed to my head, however, knocked my helmet free, and sent me sprawling.

This time I let go of the Mace. Without me as an anchor, it – like the helm, I realize - fell, down, down…horror welled up as it plummeted towards the White-Gold Tower. I rolled desperately, avoiding the impaling blow Umaril sought to land. From my prone position I kicked viciously at his elbow, awkwardly. It did the trick: Umaril's elbow isn't meant to bend like that. He dropped his sword, which plummeted after my mace.

Hissing insults I couldn't understand, Umaril kicked me again. I felt ribs break. Will the damage carry over to my physical self?

A moment later, I was face to face with him, and could barely see past the mangled face shield: inhuman eyes, red-rimmed and copper, glowered, boring into my face as he slapped me, once, twice, with face-bruising mind-jarring brutality.

Blood began to fill my mouth as I bit myself.

Hands changed positions. My ability to breath vanished. Without a weapon Umaril was going to simply choke the life from my spirit…

Black spots dancing over my vision, I tried to pull myself into a ball…and then I remembered, what I had forgotten, in the rush of adrenaline and desperation. A distant, tiny hope that was better than death by strangulation...

Fumbling, trying desperately to conserve what little air I had as Umaril whispered death to me, my hand closed around it, wedged deep in my boot, way down by my ankle. My gauntlets grazed the greaves as I pulled it free. Umaril, startled by my sudden flurry of activity looked down, in time to see me flick Mehrunes' Razor open.

The click as it locked open sounded like cannon fire to my air-deprived senses.

One of the most evil artifacts I've ever come across…and it plays by its own rules. I don't have enough breath to appreciate the irony that the tool of my greatest enemy aids me against my new enemy now.

With all my remaining force I could muster, every iota of strength, I jammed it into Umaril's breastplate, right over his heart.

The Razor hissed slightly as it slid into the armor like a knife into soft butter.

Umaril didn't let me go, but he flailed shocked by this unexpected turn of events. The armor around the Razor turned black, even as I twisted the blade, widening the hole, deepening the depths the Razor drove to. Corrosion spread, Umaril shrieking as pain, poison, and fire raced through his blood. He threw me to the ground, or what should be the ground, and for a moment I managed to prop myself up on my elbows, sputtering, and trying desperately to breathe through a bruised throat.

Umaril tore the Razor free and looked at it for one moment, then everything went silent. Not even the wind playing gently across my battered face made any noise as Umaril dropped the Razor, which vanished at about knee height in a puff of black, noxious cloud.

Umaril collapsed. But didn't stop falling when he hit the level I lay upon, he continued to fall even as the 'ground' vanished from beneath me, tipping me backwards into the welcoming arms of the wind.

Just like I promised…once he's gone…I'll follow…

--A--

To be continued...


	91. Chapter 91

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Ninety-One

--A--

This isn't real.

Standing in the Imperial Subterrane, Emperor Uriel waited up ahead, though not as though he was running for his life. Hence why I know this isn't real. Uriel's dead, and in reality this place should be a lot gloomier. However it's very brightly lit with clear light from no apparent source. "You've had quite a time, haven't you?"

With a sigh I walked forward to stare into the pool of water at his feet. "It's been one of those years." I answered. Emperor Uriel's face didn't look nearly so lined as the last time saw him, though I didn't look too hard. Look too hard and I start to find Martin…speaking of whom, if I'm _dead_ – and I suspect I must be – where is he? I half-expected to find him waiting for me, not his father.

I don't find this reassuring.

"I have served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens." I remember this too. "Ailirah of Leyawiin you were, Ailirah the Gatewalker you are…and who knows what in the future? Tell me, did the sign of the Lover sweeten your path?" There was a weight behind his blue eyes dreams should not have.

Beginning to feel vaguely tired I nodded. "Yes." For a time.

"I thought it might." A hand, ephemeral as springtime, heavy as guilt came to rest on my shoulder. Turning I found myself caught in the vivid blue gaze Uriel's family shares. "There is only one of you." He barely whispered the words, but they roared in my ears like cruel winds. "Stay with the boy – he will need you, before the end."

Tears stung my eyes, my jaw trembling. Don't you know? Don't you know he's already gone where I can't seem to follow?

Uriel touched my cheek with his hand, smiling in a tired but pleased fashion. "In your face, I behold the sun's companion." The dream began to break up, weathered like sand-eroded rock.

…the sun's companion…

… the _son's _companion…

--A--

A deep breath, as one who's nearly been strangled takes when the grip is removed woke me, making my ribs ache. Coughing, I pushed myself up on my elbow, choking and rubbing my throat. What _is_ it with people wanting to cut off my air supply? First the bear, now Umaril…

The Priory? Puzzlement welled up as I swung my legs over the side of the stone plinth upon which I lay, arms and armor arrayed about me, the weight of it like a friendly embrace. The cold of the undercroft pressed against my skin, but less like it usually did.

I was about to ask if anyone was down here, or try to sit up, when Amiel's ghost wavered into visibility, followed swiftly by the rest of his knights. All of them bore a much less grim visage than at any time previously, but the hazy light around them – a new thing – made my eyes water and smart. Please turn down the lights, they're hurting my eyes.

Automatically I sat up.

"Crusader...arise...stand and face the light." My body began to feel properly heavy as I realized while _I_ had sat up, my body had not. Looking back I found my head propped on a pillow, the Sword clasped to my breast, the mace at my side. I looked so pale lying there I thought for certain I must have died, especially with the bruises vivid across my throat. One of the priests must have done something about the bruises on my face…but why would the strangle-marks on my neck show? I thought I'd left my body…

"Breathe again and receive your reward."

My eyes began to feel heavy as I fell backwards, only to open my real eyes, suddenly aware pf deathly cold wrapped around me. The light of the knights no longer so bright as to hurt the eyes, in fact, they were so pale in the air I almost could not see them. Where's my ghost? Sitting up the blanket draped across me – dark blue, like the tabard I wore in service of the Empire – I glanced at Amiel, barely an etching of a human shape in the air.

Why did you bring me back? I was ready to pass on.

For a moment Amiel was silent, breaking up his call for me to return to the world of the living. Hunching, elbows on my knees, I succumbed to silent tears, for the first time in months. So close, _so __close_ and I didn't manage it. "You have completed your divine task. You have restored the Order. You have defeated the enemy of the Nine."

I nodded, still trying to stop the gush of searing hot water from my eyes. I need my ghost…I want my ghost…

The gripping terror that something might have happened to him in Garlas Malatar. Unable to remember if the ghost knights ever observed the phenomenon of my ghost, I didn't ask about him, though the tears became more bitter still, when the realization came to me I might have lost him for good.

The lack of sudden puffs of wind seemed to indicate this as the case.

Amiel, bless him, looked ready to expound in the way of knights who wish to make someone feel better, but at a nudge from one of the others, he digressed. _Mercifully_. "We owe you a debt of thanks. You have succeeded where we could not. You and your knights have held true to your purpose. At long last, our purgatory is at an end."

Looking up I felt vaguely comforted. That was one of the things I set out to do, wasn't it? Set them free. Throat tight and aching, I nodded to show I heard.

"We go to the glory of the Nine, to serve in their host in the life beyond this one." After a moment Amiel spoke again, but in a gentler, more familiar, human tone than the one he's used previously. "Such is your service to us, that you may call upon our spirits when you need us." A ghostly hand settled on my shoulder. I nodded again, still not trusting myself to speak, not sure if I _could, _my throat hurts that badly. "Simply pray at our tombs, and each of us will grant you a blessing from the Nine. May your sword serve the Nine all the days of your life, Crusader. Farewell."

One by one the other knights filed past, touching my shoulder as they moved to stand before their tombs. Sir Berich came last, whispering 'thank you' before following suit. For a moment they stood there, looking rather tired. Then they expanded in luminousness, as they had looked while I was not using physical eyes to see, until the whole undercroft filled with light, and I had to look away.

When I opened my eyes again, they were gone, and the air was almost usual for an undercroft, with only a hint of something vaguely creepy – friendly ghosts or not, ghosts are creepy – and the faintest waft of…roses.

"Are you there or not?" I rasped with an effort. At least I can still talk.

My haunting promptly blew against the back of my neck, which sent me dissolving into fresh sobs, this time of relief, which seemed to agitate the ghost even further.

"I'm okay…I was just worried…" I managed, before slipping off the stone table upon which I lay. My knees supported my weight painlessly, except for my throat there doesn't seem to be much else wrong with me. I feel stiff, though, but I suppose that comes from lying on a stone slab. I ache, but it was a hard fight.

I'd like to know _why _I'm in the undercroft, entombed as if dead, though.

Glancing back as I made my way towards the door, my haunting puffing at me as though to reassure me every step of the way he was there, I took a last look at the window depicting Umaril and Pelinal. "Stop that, you'll pass out, and I can't see you to carry you." I admonished gently, pushing the door open.

My ghost stopped its huffing and puffing with what I imagined as an air of relief.

"Ailirah!" Thedret jumped when I opened the door, having just reached for the handle himself. His expression was consistent with someone seeing the walking dead for the first time.

"What's with putting me on a slab?" I asked mildly, though this was ruined by the rasp in my voice. You know, I may wind up like Einar – throat damaged enough that I can't talk above a rasp.

Thedret didn't answer me. He merely reached out, looking shocked, and gave my shoulder a tap, as if expecting his hand to go through it. When his hand didn't and I sighed, he shook himself out of shock to answer. "You...you're alive!" Yes, unfortunately. "It's a miracle! I heard voices in the undercroft and I came to investigate..." He motioned over his shoulder.

"And again I ask: what's with putting me on a slab?" I'm feeling very single-minded today.

"After we got separated in Garlas Malatar, we searched further into the ruin once the Aurorans stopped respawning. We found you next to Umaril's corpse. You had no wounds on your body, but you were dead. I saw it with my own eyes - you did not draw breath!" His eyes wandered to my throat, to the angry bruising that had, indeed, somehow carried over.

"Did you use a mirror?" I choked, but my voice, for a moment, sounded normal in pitch and quality.

"No…Areldur said you weren't breathing…but there was still some color in your face. We didn't…couldn't bring ourselves to bury you…and Avita said it was a bad idea…looking like you were...like you might be..." Thedret began to babble.

Alive. The word you're looking for is alive.

"So we laid you to rest in the undercroft, planned to keep your death a secret. We, we feared what would happen if our enemies thought you were dead." Thedret ended, uncertainly.

What, throw a party? Still, I appreciate not waking up in a coffin. That might have caused me some trouble.

Thedret gave himself a shake.

"How many did we lose?" I rasped, as Thedret cried we had to let the others know I was all right.

"Come with me! We have to tell everyone that you're alive!"

"How many did we lose!?" I rasped, the words burning my lips, Martin's amulet burning cold.

Thedret let go, immediately backing away. Clearing my throat I made a show of restoring my composure. "How many, Thedret?"

"Geimund and Gukimir. That's all. They were interred several days ago, the best we could do. Um…the Prophet's disappeared as well."

I expected as much. Nodding I followed Thedret up the stairs. "Any word from Ocato and Tevyn?"

"Ye-es…" Thedret shifted. "They…"

"They think my body vanished and I did the epic hero thing?" A heavy sigh elicited a calming sentiment from my haunting. "Well, is my horse here?" Massaging the bridge of my nose I sighed again.

How do you bring someone alive back from the dead? This is going to make Ocato' s week. It's sad when everyone considers me such a success. I'm no success: I can't even manage to stay dead. I was _so close_ this time. It's not fair.

"But Umaril is..." Thedret stopped so suddenly at the base of the stairs leading out of the basement that I walked into him. "You did…"

"He's dead. Irrefutably…" I reached for my boot, looking for the Razor. It no longer reposed next to my calf, though I through I felt something like scuff marks on the inside of the boot, as if Mehrunes Razor had disliked close contact with the blessed artifact. I'm surprised it didn't do any damage to _me_, personally.

Well, better the boots than me, right? I hope Dagon appreciates the irony that his weapon defeated _my_ foe and did a damned good job of it. Yes, Umaril might be unassailable by human-made artifacts. Divine artifacts might be best for hurting him. But Daedric artifacts are powerful, and Umaril's last refuge was supposed to be part of Oblivion...so why shouldn't the Razor exist there and work there too? Also, while usually considered evil by the Nine, I think it's much better to use the tools available than to end up dead halfway through a quest.

Deaths come at the end...or so I thought. "We don't need to worry about Umaril anymore."

Paying my respect to Geimund and Gukimir wasn't easy, but I managed to do it without crying.

--A--

When I finally arrived in the Imperial City, I found it in uproar. Within a few minutes of walking in the front gate the City Watch took me into custody, passed me off Baurus and the Blades at the Palace, who chewed me out for scaring them half to death, then passed me off to an anxious and very glad to see me Tevyn.

By this time, I felt exhausted. And my ears were _numb_. I thought I'd heard the worst of it after playing Sanguine's prank in Leyawiin. I stand corrected.

According to Tevyn, when he finally stopped asking if I was all right and started _listening_ to my questions, Ocato had half the Blades in the city, preparing for a search for my body.

This is a figure of speech, by the way. I know half the Blades, and there aren't that many here. Not that I've seen anyway.

It turns out I was in the undercroft for a total of four days, which explained at least why Tevyn had no trouble at any point in getting me to eat my vegetables. By the time he got around to 'making' me eat something I realized I really was hungry. Fortunately, Tevyn knows about Daedra and the people who fight them, so really, at no point was my care overlooked. And Tevyn was smart enough to know I had probably come to the Imperial City as soon as I was able, not as soon as was prudent.

The bruises on my throat remained somewhat resistant to even Tevyn's Daedra damage oriented variations on spells. "It shouldn't last forever," he finally said, frowning at the bruises.

I shook my head. "Doesn't matter if it does." I shrugged, watching the rain spattering the leaded windows. Ocato point-blank asked me – as in 'will you _please_ for the love of whatever, do this little thing for me' rather than trying to order me - to stay in the palace. For now, at least.

I agreed because I didn't want to walk in the rain at the time, and because Tevyn was giving me 'be polite' looks while Ocato couldn't see. "I meant it when I told you to take it easy. You may feel all right, but comatose or not, you're not as strong as you like to think." Tevyn added gently. He's not unaware of my disappointment in finding myself alive again, he's just choosing his time to start addressing the issue. Tevyn's withered hand came to rest on my shoulder.

"I know." I answered. "Thank you." He's right, after all. I'm not chronically tired, but I don't feel up to fighting Dremora or wrangling anything tougher than a pillow.

With the relics of the Crusader safely in the Priory undercroft, with Frostreaver returned to me – Lathon had hung it above the mantle in the Priory House – and my proper armor I felt no hurry to do much of anything. However, as the evening progressed and the storm worsened I found myself feeling more and more cagey, until finally, around ten, I couldn't bear it anymore.

It's not like I'm leaving the city.

Throwing the covers of my bed back, I dressed quickly, pulling on a heavy rain-resistant cloak, and my ring of summons. In the flurry of activity, my ghost found somewhere quieter to hover, I imagine, though I would have liked to have kept him close. I could use the company.

Regardless, slipping out of the palace was not the chore I expected. No one raised a fuss once I stated I was simply going to the Temple of the One to pay my respects. A countess can get away with that line. It's not like I'm going into Oblivion – though if Meridia wants to beat me up for destroying Umaril, now's the time to do it.

The Prophet's words haunted me as I traversed the nearly empty, storm-washed streets. _Meridia has her reasons._

What reasons, though? It feels over...but is it really? So many unanswered questions. So many whys and hows.

The feel of the rain beating the fabric of my hood gave me distraction, the smell of fresh water reminded me I needed to get word to Jules and the others that I'm all right. No doubt they'll have heard I'm missing. On second thought, I'll talk to Tevyn tomorrow morning. I'll bet he sent off a dispatch as soon as he could, after he saw for himself I'm very much alive.

I'll bet they've been worried sick…a surge of guilt rippled through my stomach.

The rain turned to snow as I crossed towards the Temple. However something tugged at the back of my mind. Turning sharply, hand outstretched to grasp Frostreaver, I looked about for the source of the feeling of disquiet. It manifested a moment later, walking through the darkness, following the same path I had used, a man – or creature man-shape, carrying a large bundle slung over one shoulder. He raised his free hand and I felt my body stiffen in response to a spell that buzzed, fingers unable to move to call Frostreaver.

Without guards in sight, I felt suddenly vulnerable. Exposed.

My nerves sang as I struggled to break the spell. My visitor, assailant, whatever, stopped well back, features hidden by darkness and his hood. Closer, his dress resembles that of a priest, but he wears no seal with which I'm familiar. However, over his breastbone a golden medallion hung, an odd shape, like a fat, cut diamond for a ring, five-sided, and wider than it is tall.

He slid his burden to the ground, then rose, his grey-violet robes sweeping in the wind, though he took little notice of the elements. As he moved closer, the device on his pendant became clear: a rose.

As if following my gaze he raised a long-fingered hand to touch the emblem. Within moments he was within arm's reach, and I remained frozen to the spot. He gave his hood a tug, revealing hints at a mop of baby fine white hair, which gained a violet halo as a very familiar dusky violet magelight appeared in his hand. The face below the fringe of hair and the deep hood was beautiful, an unearthly, un-human, un-merish sort of beauty, too perfect to be real.

The blood raced away from my face. The buzz of magicka, and the color and quality of the light itself I recognized as my ghost's. The memory of the frozen scene in Umaril's lair, of the haunting's light and the faint silhouette of a head flickered in my mind.

Looking up from my preoccupation, I found him giving me a rather bemused smile, though a very tired one as well. In the magelight, his skin looked almost twilight-lavender, but his eyes were enormous, blue, and depthless. As endlessly kind as Dremora eyes are endlessly angry.

Warm fingers touched my throat, and I felt the marks there vanish, buzzing with strange magicka. "Daedra…" I breathed, surprised to find my jaw and tongue still worked.

"Mm hmm." He nodded, leaning closer. I caught the waft of roses in the air around him as he blew gently against the side of my neck.

My ghost was…is…a Daedra…?

"You...Kathutet saw _you_, not Tevyn..." I knew this already, or had surmised as much. He nodded, grimacing as though the name 'Kathutet' tasted bad. "...and you put the second array of wards up...didn't you?"

"Indeed." His tone indicated mild surprise I had finally put this together.

"Why…" I couldn't stop the prickle of tears in my eyes. He's obviously no Dremora...but that doesn't make him benign...much as I've always thought he was...so what _is_ he? Who's he with? Wha's his stake in all this?

"Now, there's no need for those," he brushed the tears away with a dry portion of his sleeve. "Why? Because _she_ wished it. I don't mind telling you, I'm glad to be leaving this drafty world of yours. But I think I shall miss you." He kissed my cheek gently. "I've grown rather fond of you," the use of my own words isn't lost on me. "…even if you seem to enjoy putting yourself in all sorts of dangerous fixes."

"She?" I managed.

He chuckled, a good natured sound. Despite my initial reservations…I can't see this as being an evil creature. Not like a Dremora, not scary like an Auroran. "Now, that's telling. Goodbye Ailirah. Please, do be more careful in future." He stepped past me, blew against my neck one more time – though this time I felt real, solid, warm hands on my shoulders, before both the weight and the tremor in the air of Daedric presence – so unlike Dremora – vanished as if swallowed up by the storm.

Overhead something exploded triumphantly with a boom in brilliant shades of purple and lavender, showers of burning embers and sparks that caught nothing else afire mingling with the rain to bounce off the cobblestones before vanishing.

The spell holding me vanished. Whipping about, I couldn't see him. It was as if he never existed. However, the bundle he'd laid down before coming over to talk to me still lay where he'd left it. Hurrying forward I flopped it over.

The color drained from my face as a head lolled gently to one side, the arm in my hand warm and alive beneath frozen fingers and robes taking in the bad weather.

"_Martin_."

--A--


	92. Chapter 92

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Ninety-Two

--A--

_Mehrunes Dagon roared, but the roar turned to a scream of pain as he clawed frantically at the Avatar. This could not be – not the last ragged tatter of a dying line! The Prince of Destruction continued to scrabble and claw, even as the Avatar clamped it's teeth at his throat, twisting it's snakelike neck to do it. _

_The taste of corrosion as strong in his mouth, her screams and shouts ringing like echoes in his ears. But the spells held, holding her at bay, out from under foot, out of danger. Dagon's fingers scraped at the scales of his belly and chest even as he tried to shake the Prince into submission, as a cat shakes a mouse. _

_Blood flowed from both foes, hot and crimson from Dagon, leaving smears and smudges on the Avatar's glowing body, hot and pearly-white from the Avatar, searing the Prince's hands, a price levied for every injury done against his divine foe. _

_Claws dug into Mehrunes Dagon's chest, ripping and tearing, as Dagon continued to scrabble, trying to break into the Avatar, to pull the source of the conjuration out. To quell the dragon-shape and kill the human at its heart. _

_The Avatar let go of Dagon's throat only to attack again, finding better purchase, growling in its throat as Dagon's strength waned, the lessening manifesting as a rip between the worlds. _

_The Warrior screamed again, this time as the twisted part of her soul clawed to return through the gaping split which revealed Oblivion on the far side. Spells held, spells she had no hope to break. Safe. _

_Dagon reeled back, trying to drag the Avatar with him – and the great hulking beast moved, pulled by the mouth of Oblivion, seeking to collect all those things to which it could lay claim, pulled by an inexorable enemy. Dagon could smell-taste the panic from within the Avatar. He could finish it on the other side...and then it would be all over, and that little bitch could find a comfortable spot under his heel… _

_Suddenly Mehrunes Dagon stumbled, the Avatar's teeth pulling free as the dragon reared on its hind legs, giving a screaming hiss, wings furled like a cobra spreading its hood in warning. _

_For a moment the Avatar glowed marginally brighter. Dagon could see the dark spots where the human with the last drops of the Blood rested, encased and protected, guiding the Avatar by will and desperation alone. His eyes flickered redder as he made one more lunge for the dark shadow, scales sloughing loose, vanishing as they fell from the Divine's hide. _

_But the Gate kept pulling. He slipped struggling. Glancing back he found his heels nearly at the Gate. With a scream of fury, or plans nearly thwarted –such careful plans! – he found purchase for one last grab._

_His clawed hand slid into the glowing body, clenched around something small, pathetically human-frail, and _pulled_…_

…_toppling straight back into the Gate with a scream. _

--A--

_Martin groaned dazedly as the impact of a rough landing hit him. Instinct made him roll to his feet, only to stumble free of the massive hand of a stunned Mehrunes Dagon. But his strength was spent. The blistering winds of the Deadlands slipped across his skin, burning and chafing. _

_The split between Nirn and the Deadlands was already sealing, healing like a wound, one join at a time until the whole finally mended. His last hope for getting out of this alive…_

_Capping the thoughts Martin forced himself onto his feet, relieved to find his sword still in its sheath. It wouldn't do to stay here, waiting for Mehrunes Dagon to wake up, as he seemed to be doing. Nor did Martin harbor any delusions: Dagon would find him, sooner or later. However, he could still run, and if he could put Dagon to more trouble, he would. _

_She would. Because she didn't believe in giving up, even in the face of hopelessness._

_The sounds of Daedric voices, foot soldiers coming to their lord's aide, filled the air, even as Mehrunes Dagon shrunk to a more human size – though a human size of an impressive warrior. Bigger even than the four bear-like brothers. _

"_Septim!" _

_Martin turned sharply, drawing his sword to see, standing on a low rise the whip of garments contrasting violently with the ugly landscape. A woman dressed in brilliantly silver mail, her whitened hair whipping like foam-crested waves about her dusky face held out a hand, a finely cast silver mace in the other. "Run faster, or they'll have your tongue for a trophy!" She shouted. She radiated nervousness, an eagerness to quickly leave, resolution to carry out her orders etched in the furrowing of her brows. Suspended from a silver circlet hung a single pearl, the color slightly lavender, but still luminous._

_Mehrunes Dagon was coming around, Dremora voices howling about the unexpected rescue party. _

_Martin took off at a run, wishing he could do something about the impeding weight of his armor, before remembering as panic marginally eased its grip, that he was a mage, and _could _do something about it. The feathers spell lightened the burden and he gained the ridge only to be knocked down it by the woman, into the midst of a small company crouched nearby. "Archers!" She roared, hurrying down the hillock as three men and another woman with silver bows took the ridge. "What are you waiting for?" The Daedra –for a Daedra she was – demanded, taking Martin by the elbow, and hurrying him forward. _

_Into the caverns beneath the Deadlands' baked and fissured surface she ushered him with gently but inhuman strength, back to a dead end. "Block the entry!" she barked to the rest of her soldiers, withdrawing apiece of gleaming silvery chalk, scribing runes on the floor. _

"_They're coming!" One of the men called back, looking grim beneath a silver helmet._

"_Who..." Martin panted, ignoring the pain pulsing through him like a drumbeat. He ached, his lungs screamed and whatever he thought to the contrary he realized now how out of shape he really was. _

"_Not now." She completed her chalk-marks and addressed them._

_Without another word she grabbed his elbow and shunted him through the door. The last thing Martin saw were grinning faces as the rest of the rescue party followed, angry Dremora on their heels, Mehrunes Dagon screaming curses and oaths in the lead. _

_For a moment Martin and Mehrunes Dagon found each other's eyes before the door closed._

_Looking forward Martin's eyes dazzled. Too much beauty, and the woman striding toward him seemed both unnaturally tall, unnaturally beautiful...and had not the face he wanted to see coming towards him. Her black raiment rippled as she moved, her curling white hair cascading away from her tanned face and brilliantly lavender eyes. Eyes burning, his vision faded to utter blackness with the single thought 'this is a welcome relief' echoing through his mind. The cold floor found his cheek just before a cool, ladylike hand brushed his hair back from his face, the heavy, intoxicating, bewitching smell of sweet roses replacing the noxious fumes of the Deadlands. _

"_There you are. Right on time."_

--A--

Martin's head lolled gently to one side, spared the pattering rain-snow mix as I hunched over him. Dressed in the same fashion as my ghost-turned-Daedra, he looked none the worse for wear. Frigid-cold fingers meant his cheek seemed to burn beneath them, but he showed no signs of coming around. However, the thin coil of white vapor near his mouth proved he still breathed. Leaning over I laid my head over his heart.

And it still beat. Strong, even, as if nothing were wrong at all.

"Ailirah!" Baurus' voice, mingled with Tevyn's as they and others clattered out into the streets. "Ailirah what…?"

"Ailirah, you promised!" Tevyn panted tiredly. "Nothing dangerous! Nothing _stressful_!"

"It's not my fault!" I squeaked, sounding more in that moment like the girl fished out of the Imperial Prison than the Gatewalker. Baurus noticed it, even if Tevyn didn't know what he was looking at. "Baurus…_look_."

Baurus looked away from the lights still popping in the sky. The color drained from his face faster than any one of my brothers can empty a tankard of ale. "It's not…_possible_…"

"It might be…some-some kind of ploy," I managed to articulate, my mind suddenly spinning into action. Like Jagar Tharn's infamous ruse – Mehrunes Dagon had a hand in _that_ too. "Come on – whatever this is," I nodded indicatively, "let's get it off the street or we'll have to deal with the locals getting all riled up."

Tevyn checked Martin's – the lookalike's - pulse, wrinkles forming between his brows. "Strange things are happening…" He announced.

"Yeah, no kidding," Baurus grunted. "Here, help me." Between the two of us, we got the lookalike I up off the ground. "Cyrus!" Baurus barked to his lieutenant. "Keep the crowds out of the Temple, come on Lirah."

Thank goodness the Blades were in town, preparing to mount a search expedition to recover my body – living or dead. Between the three of us, we managed to shuffle the…the lookalike into the Temple, leaning him against the plinth where the dragon statue stood. Looking up I closed my eyes. It's not possible. It's not _possible_.

I was _there_. I _saw it all_.

But, that nasty, hopeful voice so long silent whispered, what did you really see? There was never a body? You _assumed _there wasn't one. I cut the line of thought short before it could get to the part about me giving up on him before there was real proof, one way or the other.

Still, I knelt close by, picking out the ever so familiar details as I gently teased the sopping hair away from his face.

"What's the matter with him?" Baurus asked. "You'd think the cold'd bring him around."

Tevyn scooted forward, on Martin's other side. Gently he shifted Martin's head this way and that, then pulled an eyelid back. The blue eyes are the same. My hands began to shake, but not with cold. "He's been Daedra-spelled," Tevyn finally announced. "But the spelling seems to be benign. Give me a moment, please."

"Who _is _he, anyway?" Baurus pointed to Tevyn.

"An expert." I answered, still sounding choked. I wan this to be real...but at the same time, I can't assume it's what I want it to be...If I were wrong...

Baurus reached over, gripping my shoulder tightly. I nodded, though I'm not sure what I was agreeing to. Probably not to get my hopes up.

A moment later, Tevyn cast a spell, he had to cast it twice, and Martin began to come around, slowly.

Baurus and I exchanged worried looks. Tevyn doesn't always talk onlookers through what's going on.

"You." I kept my voice as harsh as I could manage, hoping for disorientation, as I reached forward, and pushed against Martin's breastbone, pushing him back against the stone of the plinth. Something only Martin would know… "The woman known as Gatewalker – you know her, yes?"

Martin's face contorted as his eyes flickered. "I know _you_…" he reached up, hooking a hand over mine, but didn't move to pull the pinning appendage away.

I swallowed hard. Mind and soul, screamed to forget caution, stop looking for treachery, or for deception and simply _believe_ what I wanted to believe. But instinct proved stronger, enabling me to simply look down at him with apparent calm coolness. "Answer me: there was a time in the infirmary. You were seeing to my burns. You'd have seen a…a distinctive marking not normally on display. What was it?" I _remember_ him looking.

Martin smiled, opening his eyes, but something made me think he wasn't really seeing me, or the rest of us. He shifted. "You want to know that here? In front of everyone?"

My cheeks didn't burn. "It's necessary." My voice was just above a whisper.

Martin frowned again, confusion replacing amusement. "What…?"

"Just answer me." It sounded more like plea than a proper command, so much so Tevyn reached out to put a hand on my shoulder.

Martin sighed, evidently resigning himself to the fact the situation was not what he expected. "It's a cluster of three freckles on your left…near your heart," he corrected himself. "Do you want my last words penned to you as well?" He asked gently.

I glanced at Baurus who – apart from looking surprised that Martin got the answer right – nodded in assent.

"Please."

Martin's fingers closed around my shaking hand as my fingers tried to curl around the fabric of his robes. "I do love you." He murmured, his other hand finding the back of my head. I closed my eyes, trying to stop the wave of tears rising like panic. "And won't ask you to forgive me for leaving you."

I broke. Flinging my free arm around his neck, I buried my eyes in his shoulder, feeling him tense with confusion and startlement as I wept unrestrainedly into his shoulder, painfully aware how _alive_ he feels.

"What's the matter with her?" Martin demanded, a little sharply, changing his grip on me to something more reassuring.

"You've…we thought you were dead, Sire," Baurus answered blankly.

"Dead?" Martin sighed, his breath tickling my scalp. "I close my eyes for a moment and people think I'm dead…" but he said this very last gently, more to himself and to me than to anyone else.

"It's been six months, Sire," Baurus appended.

"You can't see us, can you lad?" Tevyn asked quietly.

"T-Tevyn…?" Martin sputtered, gaping unabashed.

"That's right." Tevyn answered, steadiness in his tone.

"I…" Martin sighed. "No. I can't."

It doesn't matter. You're here. You're alive.

"Six months…" Martin breathed, then returned himself to trying to soothe my tears.

"Ailirah, really we should..." Tevyn began gently.

"Leave her alone, she's fine," Martin answered mulishly. "I've got her." His grip tightened.

"Can you stand?" I managed to articulate. Tevyn's right. This is a good place to retreat for a few moments to figure out the situation, or try to...but it's not _safe_. It' snot defensible.

Martin gave a wry laugh. "Can _you_?"

Between the two of us we got to our feet. I know Tevyn has Martin's interests at heart here – he's not the only professional in his element in this building. I can act like a soppy baby later. "Hang on." Leaning down I found a crushed flower, like a rose, the petals a similar color to the Daedra's skin, which had apparently fallen out of some fold of Martin's soft robes. Tucking a few petals into a pocket I straightened. It must have been tucked in his clothes, but the scent that curled even from those few petals I pocketed was very familiar and therefore entirely disturbing.

The same smell as the one that hovered around my haunting...who turned out to be a Daedra.

I need to know which _she_ I'm dealing with, and whether _she_ poses a threat…though her Daedra servant seemed pretty benign to me. "Martin, I need you to go with Baurus and Tevyn. Tevyn, I want you to act on my behalf…" I said blankly.

"What are you up to already?" Baurus asked, frowning as Tevyn took hold of Martin's other elbow.

"I want answers." I responded.

"You're not the only one," Martin mumbled.

I took one look at him before rising on tiptoe, grabbing the back of his head and dragging him down for a kiss. I know he can feel me shaking. And I don't care. As cold as we both were from the air and the weather, from shock and sudden revelations the kiss was, at least, hot, as filling as warm oatmeal on a stormy morning, but immeasurably better.

"I will catch up with you. I promise." I breathed against his lips when I pulled away. Martin's hand trailed the curve of my jaw, down my throat, and found the lump of the amulet beneath my shirt. His fingers slid across the pendant, a faint smile appearing on his features as he stared unfocused in that direction. "I _never_ take it off." I answered the unspoken question. "Please, go with Baurus and Tevyn. I will find you, as soon as I have my answers."

"No, stay with the group," Tevyn effectively both my attempt to walk off . I fully intend to wake the entire Arcane University. Tevyn, however, managed to shepherd me into the wake of Baurus and Martin, the latter leaning heavily on the former,the former barking orders to the rest of the Blades.

"No, I need answers," I repeated, praying Tevyn would understand that _I cannot bear this to be a trick, trap, or ploy_. I have to find out, and I have to do it _now_...

"No, _I_ need your help." Tevyn responded firmly. For so withered a hand, he exerted great force upon my shoulder, effectively guiding me where he wanted me to go: forward.

"But..." I protested helplessly.

"Ailirah," Tevyn reasoned in a tone that brooked no argument, but at the same time failed to aggravate my temper, "I am fairly sure this is not a trick. I'll be more than happy to let you run your investigations in the morning. But at the moment, the situation is very unstable. Dangerous. If it is a trap, who better to deal with it than you? And if not...you are willing to leave his safety to the Grandmaster and a humble priest?"

I ignored the allusion to a complaint I made long ago about the Blades – I was having a bad day, and the remark was patently untrue, and wholly unfair. "There's nothing wrong with being a humble priest," I grunted, scowling back at Tevyn. His logic is unassailable. "But if we're wrong..." I don't want us to be wrong.

"I know, Ailirah. But I don't think we are wrong." Tevyn repeated firmly.

With a heavy sigh I began to walk of my own volition. He doesn't get it: there are always many things we want to be true. Too often, though, they turn out wrong. Picking up my pace, I fell into step with Baurus.

"Has it been bad?" Martin asked, his sightless eyes pointing in my direction. "While I've been gone?" Except for the crease between his brows, he looked rather composed. He obliviously couldn't see the wall of Blades who wore similar expressions of shocked terseness as they marched us towards the palace. I, for my part, ignored them as part of the landscape.

"It's been bad," I answered. My guts say this is all right, that this is all real. My head, my inner devil's advocate, says don't trust _anyone_. He _knew_ the answers to the questions, though...

...but who knows what sneaky Daedra capable of? Like Kathutet. Maybe he somehow...I don't know. Lifted the answers out of my head, and this is some Dremora in a Martin suit...

No. No, I'm sorry, that not only sounds ridiculous, it requires too much imagination, and Mehrunes Dagon hasn't got one of those. Imagination, I mean. "What was the last thing you saw?" I asked, softening my tone.

Martin considered. "I'm not sure." He's lying. Or rather, he's not telling the whole truth. "One moment I was in Obliv..."

"Not here. Ailirah," Baurus cut in sharply, suddenly aware of people gathering to gape at whatever was going on between us, peering curiously through the wall of stoic Blades. "You can grill him later."

"I'm not going to grill him." I answered calmly.

Martin's mouth twitched. "I thought you grilled everyone, when things failed to tally."

I eyed him – yes, that's a Martin sentiment right there. There's no funny buzz or sizzle in the air, nothing remotely Daedric about him...not that I can feel. "I've learned some new tricks. The newest one is called diplomacy."

"Oh really?"

Tevyn cleared his throat, and I found, for the first time in months, the corners of my mouth trying to turn upwards, the ghost of a smirk. Doubts began to leech away, even if the burning questions remained. It's like a conversation out of memory.

"Really." I switched sides, so I was walking beside Martin, his hand absently moving through the air to find my arm, to let himself know where I actually stood. Reaching up I folded my hand over his. "And speaking of really, what did you _really_ see?"

"Something beautiful. But nothing I truly wanted to see." He answered, equally diplomatic.

The rest of the walk to the palace was silent. Once we had Martin inside and safely sequestered, Tevyn – Baurus' request, prompted by my recommendation – gave Martin a once-over, to make sure he had suffered no lasting harm. I stood in the hallway with Baurus for this process, which took several hours. In the end, Tevyn declared Martin was, at least, certainly human, healthy, and except for the blindness, was not scarred by Oblivion, or injured by it's inhabitants.

Tevyn also had the foresight to spell Martin to sleep, so no one – like the overexcited Chancellor Ocato, still in his nightclothes - could inundate Martin with lots of questions in quick succession.

I spent the rest of the night, until dawn, sitting near Martin's beside, half dozing in a chair, awaiting the earliest convenient time to head over to the University to ask my questions and make my investigation. The haunting. The rose in Martins' clothes. The blindness. His miraculous return from the dead...it makes sense, but at the same time, it doesn't. All my Daedra lore is pointing to one conclusion...except it _isn't possible_...

--A--

Waking early, I found gray sky peering through a chink in the curtains Martin still lay sleeping peacefully. My body protested as I got out of my chair, stiff form the awkward position I'd sat in for most of the night. On the other side of the door I found Baurus had increased security, and that both he and Tevyn were having a whispered conference at the end of the hall.

"I'm going to the Arcane University. We're decided this is still a Daedric matter?" I asked, popping my neck and back, trying to regain some limberness in my muscles, and wincing as I did so.

"Yes, I'm fairly sure it is. The spell I pulled off him was not like any spell cast by men or mer. It was not malevolent, however, in any way." Tevyn agreed.

"Right." I nodded.

"We will have his identity verified – he was once registered to the Mages Guild. They have ways of ascertaining an identity – we'll speak to Archmage Traven as soon as we can." Baurus answered. He means 'when it's an acceptable hour of the morning for an Archmage to be awake'.

"Good. I want to believe it's him..." I added.

"But you don't want to make a mistake others will pay for." Tevyn finished, patting my shoulder reassuringly. "It is part of your job as Imperial Champion to be the voice of doubt in a situation like this. Go make your inquiries, Ailirah. I have theories, but I should like to know what you learn."

"I'll do that," I inclined my head deferentially.

"Ailirah, don't mention Martin by name just yet," Baurus interrupted. "I want to keep this quiet for as long as possible. Gossip we can't help, but it's still a Blades matter. So..."

"I understand," I nodded to him as well. I understand very well – it's your third chance as far as the Emperor's safety goes. The world doesn't afford many second chances, let alone third ones. I feel as though darkest doubt vanished with the dawn. I have reservations, don't get me wrong, but I also find myself feeling very...hopeful. Something I've not felt for a long time. "I'll make it sound like it's someone else. Tar-Meena will let me play the hypothetical situation card."

"The Arcane University will be sound asleep, you know," Tevyn offered gently. "Do keep your head down."

"If they scorch my hair, they'll have bigger problems than an early morning," I assured him. "Goodness knows it won't kill them to pull an early morning once in a while." I answered. "Keep them on their toes."

Tevyn smiled.

Baurus grinned as well, but I didn't. I'm on a mission. I have a job to do. Then maybe…maybe I can start looking to the future, instead of watching the path at my feet. Any future with _him_ alive is far better than the past months.

--A--

The mages at the Arcane University were not pleased to be rousted, just as Tevyn expected, at the break of day. The battlemages, however, understood I would only show up at such an unearly hour as _the crack of dawn _if I thought it important.

"This is most disagreeable, Ailirah," Tar-Meena yawned as she flopped into the overstuffed chair in the office dubbed 'our office'.

"Sorry for the hour, but it can't wait." I produced the rose petals, setting them on the table. They looked a little woebegone after waiting all night, but surprisingly fresh. No normal rose petals, though I already knew this. "I have a puzzle for you."

"Ocato grows plants," Tar-Meena stretched, her tail lashing irritably. "Ask him."

"Only irises. I've seen them." I countered. "I also saw a Daedra, I think it was. A weird one."

Tar-Meena struggled not to show her interest. "The usual sort, or was it dead when you found it?" She asked politely.

"Quite alive." I answered. "And he brought a…a human with him. One of our combat missing," I stretched the truth subtly.

"_Really_?" Tar-Meena leaned forward, picking up one of the petals. "A rose. Sweet to smell, and…" she popped the petal in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "And _very_ beneficial to the health. Not the standard Nirn variety. Tell me about this Daedra." Early morning forgotten, Tar-Meena's temper sweetened almost immediately.

I obeyed, watching Tar-Meena muse. "What do you think?" I finally prompted.

"Well, it's impossible, I'd say. It sounds like you ran into one of Azura's servants – she likes pretty things and from your description this Daedra certainly was."

"That's what I thought too," I nodded. Azura is usually associated with dusk, dawn and moonlight, of course. But she's also associated with roses and pretty things. I also won't usually use the word 'pretty' to describe a man, but in this case, if the shoe fits. "Her realm doesn't connect with Nirn, though," I argued. "It's not possible...is it?"

"Of course it's not connected anymore," Tar-Meena shrugged dismissively. "But there is that Gate to Sheogorath's Madhouse in the Niben Bay," Tar-Meena corrected. "Assuming the record 'The Doors of Oblivion' is still accurate, one comes to understand that regardless of attachment to Nirn, the realms in Oblivion are accessible to one another. Parts of a whole."

"Huh?" I frowned. You lost me.

Tar-Meena took her time giving me one of those so-superior looks. I let her have it – it makes sense. I read 'The Doors of Oblivion' once. There was a description of Moonshadow, Azura's plane. It rendered the viewer half-blind…which could account for Martin's current condition. "It means that theoretically, Azura's minion could have _used_ that connection to enter the Madhouse, and from there, cross over into Nirn. They don't use magicka like we do..."

"But I'm supposed to be _sensitive_ to Daedric magicka – I never felt so much as a…it was barely a weird sizzle!" I protested, feeling confusion fall in thick globs around my buzzing mind.

"Ailirah, you're attuned to the _Deadlands_, not the whole of Oblivion - that's impossible." Tar-Meena shook her head. "Tell me about the human your Daedra brought back."

"Blind as a bat, or was last time I saw him." I answered.

"Well, I'd call that consistency. The plane of Moonshadow is supposed to be a blindingly beautiful place. You might want to consult your, ah, rescued comrade. You should know, being a fighter, Azura's been known to meddle in our affairs before now." Tar-Meena pointed out.

"The Nerevarine." I answered promptly. Hence the basis for all my hopes: it makes sense, at least, as to why she intervened. Or, I should say, it gives a superficial reason why. Daedra are usually running their own schemes, and we mortals rarely see the whole plot laid out.

"Exactly. This might simply be a Daedric power play, or the Daedra trying to level a playing field. I can't see the Prince of Destruction and the Mother of the Rose getting along too well. She's the most proactive Daedra when it comes to her followers. I'd ask for a more detailed accounting from your no longer missing man, if I were you."

I nodded. The roses, the smell of them hanging around my haunting fits that line of thought. The fact he wasn't much of a fighter makes sense too – I'm enough for both of us. But I wasn't strong, I needed the support, occasionally healing. It explains quite a bit, actually.

"If it is Azura, I wouldn't try too hard to fathom her logic. Daedra like being mystical and unfathomable." Tar-Meena declared gently.

--A--

For those still confused, the next chapter will illuminate matters further.


	93. Chapter 93

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos. Enjoy the chapter!

--A--

Chapter Ninety-Three

--A--

All in all, Azura thought she was to be congratulated. The heir apparent lived, the girl lived…and everything was, for the moment, as safe as a child in mother's arms. Now, with only a few more hurdles, perhaps this nonsense of Dagon's expansionism might come to an end. Sweet Roses knew she wasn't the only one who'd worried – though of course, she added acidly, she was the only one to act.

Oh well, that simply meant the credit all went to her, didn't it? It also meant, she smiled more wickedly, she could call in favors later. Oh yes, one never knew when a favor could come in handy. It was so important to maintain the little edges, when one was a Daedric Lord.

The girl again. Azura turned. The would-be Emperor dreamed of the girl often. Not dreams of a future on a throne. Not nightmares of the Ambitious Fool. The girl, sitting on a battlement with a box in her lap – smiling as the late afternoon sun glanced off red curls. Impossibly small as she shivered and shook from fear of the unknown, of _change_. Improbably brave as her set forward accompanied by kin and blood-kin into a flaming maw. Sweet as roses, pure as silver, and for one ephemeral moment…

Azura sighed, standing up, letting the dreams resume their flow. An interesting choice of girl for one of Sanguine's…well, _former_ Sanguinites. And yet, they were oddly well-matched these two not-quite-average mortals. Touched by two opposing forces, one jaded by Sanguine and still somewhat sensitive to violence and bloodshed. On so desensitized by violence and bloodshed it ought to make her quite callous, but otherwise innocent. Two uniquely well-matched people, Azura considered. Oh the cosmic humor of it all.

And, speaking of Sanguine...

Azura turned, watching the nearly empty room of white marble veined with silver, hung with dusky violet banners. Nearly empty, save for her Daedric guards, and her entourage huddled politely in the doorway as she checked up on her 'guest'.

"Well well, look at you – pretty as a picture. Or are you just feeling smug?" Sanguine's reedy voice demanded from the empty air.

"Sanguine," Azura remarked idly. "And to what do I owe this…ah, _dubious _honor?" Dubious indeed. She had no doubt Sanguine would like to make his former reveler squirm more than a little, though she would never permit Sanguine to work his mischief in her own home. This was a dignified household. Sanguines debauchery had no place here.

Sanguine appeared within the time it took Azura to blink, looking pudgy and jovial as ever. At this distance Azura could not see the traces of corruption and decay. "Now, now, Twilight Rose, you're breaking my heart." Sanguine grinned, his sharp teeth grayed even in the pure light of Azura's Silver Palace.

Azura frowned, drawing herself up to her full height, black robes shimmering gently, winking with tiny beads of jet as she moved. "Perhaps, but most likely not," she responded idly.

"Charming to the last!" Sanguine snickered. "Still feeling lonely, then? I could be persuaded to fix that."

Azura curled her lip. It was Sanguine's nature to be crass, but really, did he have to do it in her house? "Now, I really can't tell." Azura responded sweetly, but with a hint of venom. "Are you so charming because you're _drunk_ and know no better...or because you are sober, and wish me to think you drunk?" Which was, she felt, the perfect excuse to turn him out.

Sanguine's chuckle filled the room like the scent of spirits. "You're too proud, Twilight Rose. Too proud and waaay off the mark." Sitting down, a chair appeared promptly under him. Sanguine looked up at Azura. Willful little thing, but clever. Perhaps a little too clever sometimes, which made Sanguine wonder, in that tiny, sober part of his mind what _else_ was going on, hidden by the current veil of intrigue.

Azura's lip curled further as, accompanying the chair, a pair of flimsily-dressed voluptuous females – she was sure they weren't human – appeared, one to sit on Sanguine's knee, the other to hold his drink. Azura was not surprised to find Sanguine eying her, watching for a reaction. "Please remember there will be no orgies, and no smoking in this room. Apparently there's little I can do about the spirits without being rude."

"Oh, dear, where _are _my manners?" Sanguine gasped in mock shock, clapping a hand to his horned forehead. "Take the Princess a glass, love." Slapping his second attendant across the rear as he gave the order, Sanguine leaned back, sprawling comfortably. "Hehe – the Planes know she could use one." He added.

"I decline," Azura responded with a look down her nose that could have frozen a lake in seconds. "I'll ask you again. To what do I owe this visit?"

"Don't play thick – you're not dealing with some addle pated mortal, Rose." Sanguine got up, his entourage and chair vanishing. "I'm here to see my lad, of course." He chuckled, strolling over to the low couch where the heir apparent lay asleep. Azura's magicka lay thick over him. A sleeping prince – what a twist on an otherwise very boring children's story. Still, it'd keep the lad out of trouble. "Maybe have a little chat," Sanguine continued, "a nice reunion of old friends."

"Don't be ridiculous." Azura spat, moving between the sleeping heir and Sanguine's progress.

"Now, now, what's mine is apparently yours as well, but the bottom line is he's still _mine_." Sanguine retorted, mildly annoyed.

"Only in memory." Azura responded dismissively. "He renounced you, left your service. More power to him," she added. Certainly, she would have preferred to have him, once he left Sanguine, but she supposed things had panned out appropriately. It might prove awkward to have a Daedra-worshipper on the Empire's throne. No, she suspected many people would have problems with that.

"Tch. I thought you liked to waste your time with pure-hearted, idiot-idealist mortals, Rose…I know what seethes in his skull. And if _she _did, she'd run like the little rabbit she is." Sanguine's distaste was evident.

That girl the lad had picked up made his stomach feel sour. The bet he'd had with Hircine about the chase and the eventual catch between the heir and the warrior had ended in a draw thanks to sheer stubbornness and some misguided nobility on _her _part. She would, Sanguine thought disgustedly, find a way to make things difficult for him, knowingly or unknowingly. It had to be the winning a bet comment he'd made when she'd visited his Shrine. Too damn sensitive, that girl…

"Yes, after _you _seeded it there, I'm sure." Azura responded dryly. "But, that's neither here nor there. He," she gestured to the sleeping heir, "is part of a private argument. One which doesn't involve you."

"Ah, but the claws are in, so I'm in. This whole thing isn't _nearly _as private as you like to pretend it is." Sanguine snickered. "I've got bets running with Hircine and Clavicus and I would like to win them. So he needs to go back soon, and…you know. The homecoming thing."

Azura grimaced when Sanguine trailed off, bouncing his eyebrows once or twice indicatively. His meaning couldn't be more plain. "Then I hope you enjoy losing money, he's not going anywhere for awhile." Thank the Waters time moved oddly in Oblivion. It would be harder for the girl than for the heir.

"Yeah. In that respect, he's worse than a swooning princess. Loves to put on a good show," Sanguine nodded, deliberately twisting Azura's words. "Dunno how that little twit of his puts up with it. Or how he stomachs _her_ for that matter…but, money is money and I hate losing bets." Sanguine scratching himself idly, knowing the show would irritate Azura.

With a chuckle he decided, for the millionth time, Twilight Rose was such a prude.

Azura repressed a smirk as Sanguine muttered something dire against the girl in question, missing his attempt to goad her by looking over at the sleeping priest. Despite her amusement over this…she chose the word 'pure' love…she also couldn't deny Sanguine had a very small, smidgen of a point.

Undoubtedly when the time came for such things, Martin would take amusement and even enjoyment in corrupting the girl. And the girl herself might just surprise him. Daedric impulses in mortals tended to upset mortal plans.

If corruption was even the word – for Azura used it only in the context of a joke.

The air went very suddenly still, her smile half fading.

Sanguine looked around, like a rabbit catching the first strains of baying hounds. "Oh, it looks like you've got another visitor, Rose. I'll just let you deal with him." Sanguine was gone before his words ended.

Azura turned a quarter turn, her audience chamber spreading out before her, replacing the cozy room where the heir slept, safe and well protected. Dagon was making good time, she thought as she settled, reaching down to adjust the flow of her silken skirts as Dagon burst in like a storm personified.

"Having a bad day, are we?" She taunted, smiling innocently at him. Indeed, as far as the mortal world cared, it was less than two days after the great tragic death of their would-be Emperor.

"You!" Dagon's harsh voice echoed, the one sound which remained unmusical, unbeautiful in this realm dedicated to the elevation and veneration of appearances.

"Yes, _I_," she retorted, her voice suddenly larger even than Dagon's wrath as she stood up. Azura would never admit it, but she did so enjoy watching Dagon's plan foiled, and watching Dagon himself get so riled up. He deserved it, of course, rude as he was wont to be, but still. "And if you did not see it coming, then perhaps you were simply not ready for such an _ambitious_ enterprise." Dig in the claws.

"Bite your tongue, Azura, or I'll rip it out," Dagon spat, glowering at the too-perfect face. The gall of her…how she _dared_ meddle and interfere!

Azura held up a hand as her followers flocked in, carrying long glaives at the ready. It would not be the first time they evicted Dagon forcibly from Azura's home. "Idle threat, Dagon." Striding down the stairway to the same plane as Dagon she let her appearance change, enjoying the anger on his face as she assumed the uncomfortable from of a tiny red-haired girl. How the girl ever got anything _done_ with such a small frame, the Daedra did wonder.

For Azura, it was something like cramming herself into too small a sack, tight, restricting, and forcing her neck at a funny angle...though to an onlooker the illusion was perfect. "I have _always_ allied myself with heroes and Champions. You know that," the teasing, chirpy voice did not mask the crackle of power.

"Your realm was Unmoored! You've broken the rules!" Dagon snarled, knowing full well when it came to Azura, fair didn't matter so long as she got her way and didn't upset any cosmic or longstanding balances in the process. And she usually _did _get her way_, _sooner or later.

"I? Break the rules? Don't be ridiculous." She responded with supreme condescension, resuming her own form. It was too small a frame, too frail a shape. "You know very well, he was dragged into _your_ realm first – not mine –and I simply had him _rescued_." Azura argued sweetly. Oh yes, she knew enough to predict how things would happen, where to be if rescue were needed and sure enough, she was right once again.

"Give me the bastard." Dagon rumbled, his mad red eyes blazing in their sockets, burning into Azura's calm face.

"No," Azura responded simply, watching Dagon's temper seethe. A few more minutes and he might just spontaneously burst into flames. Not that it would hurt him, and it would make a mess but it signified a loss of control. Azura was in a mood to see Dagon lose his temper, just for the satisfaction of knowing such a loss of temper was _her fault_.

"Give him to me."

"And again I say no."

Dagon swept forward, clearing the room impossibly quickly in a tide of violence, closing one hand around Azura's throat, necessitating her to raise a deceptively delicate hand to forestall any action from her followers. Dagon growled, baring his teeth, hot fetid breath scorching her skin. "Do it – or I'll lay such waste to this paltry palace of your as only Vaernima in that cesspool of a Plane has ever seen," he breathed, his breath hot and acrid in Azura's nostrils, making her skin prickle uncomfortably.

Azura smiled and shouted, wordlessly.

Dagon fell backwards, into one of the room's pillars, slumping to the ground. Getting up, he made to storm forward again, and again was blasted effortlessly back. "Which is precisely why," Azura announced with awful scorn and coldness, "I stepped in. How long after you took Tamriel, before you _dared_ to try and oust the rest of us, or bring us to heel?" she demanded. "It's in your _nature_, fool. As is _failure_ in your overambitious plots. Now, get you gone, or I shall _send_ you from these halls."

Dagon got to his feet, still seething, looking ready for another bout.

Willful stubbornness, and Azura was no longer in the mood for it. "_Go_!" Azura bellowed, and for a moment the shout took form, a filmy silver veil which fell over Dagon, then constricted, like a sack, then he vanished with a pop, and the lingering smell of burnt flesh.

"How long shall we harbor the mortal, Your Highness?" Came the murmur of one of the attendants. It was always unnerving to watch Azura kick someone out of her realm, not the least because they, the attendants would do it gladly.

"Meridia has plans – we shall hold him here a little longer. We shall have to see if she has the strength remaining to stop Umaril. If so…_his_ return would be fitting reward, don't you think?"

Daedra dislike debts. Especially debts to mortals.

"Find Damiel. I'd like a word with him." Azura walked to her private suite, settling on a low couch. Dealing with Dagon was mentally exhausting, more so because he acted like a spoilt child rather than the ancient creature he actually was.

The only problem, the only wrinkle she could see in her plan was _if_ Umaril won...then again, sooner or later some other Hero would rise up, and who knew? No, plans for a possible failure could come later. She would simply have to ensure the dice fell favorably once they were cast.

A moment later the door opened, admitting one of her attendants. "Madame," he bowed, his mop of feathery white hair waving gently as he moved.

"I have a task for you." Azura sat up, assessing this, one of her most trustworthy agents, decidedly her favorite. It was a wrench to send him to the girl, but Azura did not trust Dagon not to find a way to slip agents through the chinks between the worlds with the intent of destroying her.

The battle was not truly over – the battlefield had simply moved out of the reach and ken of the mortals caught in it. "I want you to go to Nirn, though the doorway I shall contrive to have opened soon. There, you will find this girl," Azura waved, an image of the heir's champion appearing on the purple rug. "Take a form that is both fleet and ephemeral – a haunting or spirit. Unseen, yet reassuring. You will be her aid as she faces Meridia's old favorite."

Damiel swallowed uncomfortably, looking from his Lady to the image she had conjured. "But…I'm not a solider…" He sputtered, blinking up at Azura. His primary skill lay in the healing of soul and body…not the damaging of same. He _could_ defend himself, but preferred not to have to. And other Daedra, whatever form he took, would know him for what he was, just as he would know them.

Azura chuckled at the face he was making. "I know that, she doesn't need a soldier. She is ailing, Damiel. And the only cure is, must be kept, here for the time being. So I am sending you. Be discreet, do what you can, and keep out of her way. She's made enemies, I wouldn't put it past them to try something nasty."

Damiel nodded with a resigned sigh. What Azura wanted, it was his duty to make sure she got. And if she wanted him to babysit this mortal, invisible and almost without form, that was his duty to do. "I'll do what I can, my Lady."

Azura smiled. "I know you will." Damiel was good at getting things done. She could rest comfortably in that knowledge.

And now, Azura grimaced, to speak to Sheogorath..

---A--

Negotiating with Sheogorath was always a chore, but Azura felt she had managed. Any other schemes she had, or wound up planning, between now and fell second. He knew the Greymarch must come – the Era of the Amulet of Kings and the Empire as Nirn knew it was over. And he was frantic, or as frantic as a madman could be for answers – answers she was willing to provide in exchange for a door. A door into Nirn itself, making the Fringe of the Isles a sort of crossroads.

But only after she had a chat with Meridia. Already she knew what sort of candidate she wanted to send to the Shivering Isles as a champion – not a fighter, a researcher. Someone whom the nature of that land would stagger. Someone who must, of course, fail in the attempt to stop the Greymarch. There could be no option for success where this was concerned. The other Daedra agreed upon this long ago. Already she had agents moving to procure the object to buy the cooperation of Hermaeus Mora in loaning her one of his Attendants.

But the problem was still Meridia.

Azura turned sharply to see Meridia herself standing nearby, swathed in a dark grey cloak and hood. "I thought you'd want a word," Meridia drawled. "I also heard Dagon was getting uppity again."

"You could have pitched in," Azura remarked.

"Why? You had it covered, and I had other business." Meridia shrugged, her voluminous cloak rippling as she moved. "I already know what this is about. but why don't you ask me?"

"It's about Umaril."

Meridia frowned at her fingernails, an elegant ring flashing upon one hand, set with a stone like a clear opal. "Yes. He's gotten bored over the centuries. What do you want me to do about it?" Meridia eyed Azura. The other Daedra was so painfully predictable in her efforts to live up to the reputation 'the good Daedra'. If only the deluded fools knew the truth.

"I want you to stay out of it." Azura said.

"Now, Umaril is only here because of my..indulgence." Meridia shook her head.

"Yes, well, you didn't expect the humans to win free, now did you? Surely you see how pointless it is." Azura wheedled. It was true – she remembered the day everything changed. Remembered Meridia's shock when the humans broke free, and threw off the yoke of their Ayleid masters.

Meridia refused to let the remark sting. "Calling in your favor so soon?" Meridia smirked, knowing full well that was the next track Azura would use. The whole argument of saving the other Planes from _possible_ attempts at usurpation by Mehrunes Dagon centered around Azura being 'owed a favor' by any and all the other Daedra Lords.

Azura scowled. With so little to do with Meridia, it was easy to forget how _crafty _she could be. "Yes."

Meridia nodded. Exactly what she expected to hear. Exactly what she wanted to hear. "Well, I know the girl by reputation. We all do, as we've all kept an eye on her progress for one reason or another." Mostly because of Sanguine's incessant ploys to get the other Daedra to bet, first to the girl's' survival chances, then on smaller details. He'd put quite a but of money on this favorite hound of his, though the girl certainly didn't know she was Sanguine's puppet in the Daedric world of gambling. "She's very efficient at dispatching the undead. Let her fight the ghosts of Pelinal and Umaril's tale…and then Umaril himself." Meridia shrugged. "At the least, an interesting diversion. At the most, well.…" Meridia shrugged.

"Any undead dispatched is all right with you," Azura finished. "There are quite a few, you know."

"Of course I do. And if she follows the path the whole long way, she'll take care of many minor nuisances for me. Willing or no. And speaking of willingness, you'd better keep a close eye on her," Meridia responded dryly. "Dagon's been unusually…quiescent. It's not his nature to lose gracefully. He either has hooks in her, or plans to soon."

Azura nodded. "Thank you."

"Don't. She hasn't beaten Umaril yet. Fifty-fifty chances – Sanguine's starting a betting pool already. Better get them in while you can."

Of course he was – Sanguine lived for such…spectacles.

"And you'll not interfere?" Azura asked.

Meridia sighed. "I won't aid Umaril outside the original agreement. There's no point really, now he's the last. If he wants to get himself killed – perhaps – then he's free to do so. And if he wins, well. I'm not sure he will know what to do with himself."

Azura nodded. Not what she'd hoped for, but it was better than nothing. Far better.

--A--


	94. Chapter 94

Author's notes: Oblivion and all its characters, places, events, etcetera are property of Bethesda Softworks. Special thanks to my beta, Pheonicia, who cleans up my grammar errors and typos – you're the best!

--A--

Chapter Ninety-Four

--A--

The chilly morning air made my lungs feel tired and flaccid as I strode through the incredibly full but relatively silent streets, boots clicking on the flagstones, Frostreaver resting against my shoulder, at rest but naked to the morning sunlight. Remembering to keep my back straight – good posture, don't slouch – I trotted lightly up the steps to the Temple of the One, the chainmail skirts of my proper armor jingling as I moved.

Ocato, delighted when we told him, and proved, Martin was both alive, well and himself, organized _the_ _fastest _coronation in recorded the Amulet of Kings broken, we're improvising. Unfortunately, a lot of the improvising falls to me.

Unfortunately for me, within the week since Azura's Daedra dropped Martin on the flagstones of the Temple District, I haven't seen him for more than a few hours.

I don't think I've truly come to grips with the fact he's back. Or I can't, for fear of losing him again. Less than a few minutes to say hello generally means a certain amount of cordial, awkward politeness, or at least that's my perception. Part of me feels like I've lost him all over again. And yet, there's a certainty tenderness on his face when he knows I'm in the room, even if he can't see me. Almost as if he can hear echoes of the pain I've not dealt with yet, the powerful, unexpressed relief that he's alive, and well and whole.

As far as Ocato and this ridiculous coronation rigmarole, I think he's just eager to have an Emperor again to shoulder most of the pressing issues. I don't blame him: you couldn't pay me to do the Emperor's job. Not by myself anyway. Fortunately, the Council's going to thin out _very soon._

"Hold."

I stopped walking, watching as the high priest came sweeping up to me, his best robes immaculate in the brilliant daylight streaming into the Temple of the One. "This is a holy place – leave your sword." He commanded levelly.

"Forgive me, Priest, but these are evil times." I answered carefully. Crap. I should have called him 'father', shouldn't I? Damn. I shouldn't think words like that in the chapel…but still.

"Indeed so, but with it you may come no further. Name your errand, Champion." Of course, he already knows, but the formalities must be observed, or so Ocato believes. I suppose I agree, since we can't relight the Dragonfires properly. Still, this is a bit much.

"I've come in the service of the Imperial Line, at the request of the Elder Council, and in good faith with the Nine." I rattled off – start small and work up. That was easy to remember. "We have an heir to the Bloodline. His lineage is true. The Council has approved him. I come to fill the duty of Imperial Champion, and offer him his crown."

Who came up with this dialog? I've heard better in lower end open-air festival plays.

The priest responded, asking me to again declare myself in good standing with the Nine. This is more like assurance I'm trustworthy than anything else. Though, again it's all for show, even if in my case I'm still _technically_ a member of the Knights of the Nine, whether I want to be or not.

I still don't – I've got enough crap to deal with right now.

I dutifully responded I was, in fact, in the Nine's good graces. Am. Damn that's twice…

Ugh. That _is_ twice. Bellona would kill me for swearing in the chapel.

The priest's acolyte brought the crown, wrapped in white silk, and handed it to his superior. "Take it, with our blessing."

I bowed, taking the crown, tucking it securely under one arm – an awkward task, but I need to keep at least one hand free in case of attack. Frostreaver isn't purely for show. We don't expect trouble, (though if anyone's dumb enough to make some, there'll be more Guards, Blades and people like me at their throat before they realize who just clobbered them) but it's better to be prepared.

Turning, I trotted back down the steps, into the silent streets and headed for the Imperial Palace, exchanging words with the gate guards at each end of the district, then to Caro and Erina who stood on the other side of the gates. Normally it should have been Baurus, as the new Grandmaster, but once bitten, twice shy, Baurus wasn't about to let Martin out of his sight – unless maybe Martin was with me.

It's a good idea - better boundless paranoia than wreckage and ruin later.

Sunlight spilled pure and golden, dazzlingly bright from overhead. Despite all the Daedric involvement, I find myself seeing how – perhaps – the Nine were able to sit back and let the story unfurl. Intervening by not intervening, if you will. Doesn't make it any easier on _me_, but knowing things weren't so out of control as they seemed at the time is a small comfort.

Speaking of Baurus, he stood ahead, glinting slightly at the end of the walk, dressed in his full Blade regalia, though he didn't look neared as commanding as Jauffre. It's okay, he's got time to grow into the role. Martin stood a little in front of him, dressed head to toe in Imperial finery. I saw Baurus' mouth move, probably to let Martin know I was on my way.

He looks like he's about to fight a rampaging Dremora. With his bare hands.

I caught a glimpse of my family standing off to one side, my brothers looking very proud (although I had to repress a grin when Roge winked at me. Show a little decorum, Roge.).

Eyes forward, I continued my slow, measured progress forwards. Thank goodness Martin, or whoever, has more sense when it comes to getting dressed for a formal occasion than Emperor Uriel the day I met him. Gone are the clashing red and purple robes. Martin is wearing _blue,_ a good color for him, and the shattered Amulet of Kings hanging about his neck, broken, lifeless, but nevertheless symbolic.

Unlike Emperor Uriel, possibly emphasizing the change in the world as we know it, he's also wearing chainmail and a sword. He decided the full plate was too much, and one of those hours I managed to steal of his time was to help him find a setup of armor he liked. I'll admit, the sword is a bit pointless since he can't see an opponent to use it, but a nice symbolic gesture, I'm sure. Fortunately, he can throw fireballs if someone points him in the right direction.

"Hold," Baurus announced from behind Martin's shoulder, as the guards separating the Elder Council behind Martin and Baurus rested hands on weapons. I forced myself not to react. It's part of the scripting, it's part of the scripting…

…I keep waiting for someone to jump out and do something incredibly stupid.

"Name yourself, and state your business." Baurus stepped forward, as if to intercept an assassination attempt.

I eyed him levelly. "I am a servant of the Empire," I answered calmly, "and I come before you in service of that Empire. My errand is to the heir apparent."

"And what," Martin spoke up, calm as ever, though at this distance I could see him shaking slightly from nerves. Well, it's pretty stressful, I'll admit. Probably made worse by the fact he can't see anything. We all suspect the blindness is permanent. I'd be unnerved too. But he's alive. "would that errand be, Champion?"

Baurus moved off to the left. I knelt, a little awkwardly, my armor clinking softly as I did so, setting Frostreaver on the ground between Martin and myself. "To lay my sword at your feet, my Lord, and to raise you to your rightful place."

Baurus looked over at Martin, who nodded – again, scripted – then he looked back towards the Elder Council. Ocato looked to his fellows and they nodded, he nodded Baurus looked back to me and he nodded…

I almost nodded before reminding myself I'm not supposed to. Damn – how did the old emperors ever get anything _done_, with the amount of posturing going on here? I can't wait to get out of the public eye. I'm starting to feel a little twitchy.

Getting to my feet, I held the crown in its wrap in both hands. "The Red Dragon Crown," I announced to Baurus, remembering how, so long ago, he'd pointed out that while the Amulet of Kings was the real symbol of leadership, the crown was the one most people recognized.

Baurus unwrapped the crown, and held the silk while I lifted the article free. It is _ogre-ugly_. Stepping up to Martin I hissed at him, so softly no one apart from Baurus would hear me. "Kss. You look like you're at your own funeral."

Martin's mouth twitched as he struggled to maintain his composure. "Same old, same old," he muttered back. This is a twofold plan, by the way. It might help ease his jitters, but it also lets him know sort of where I'm standing, because the next part is a little tricky. Setting the crown on his head – I had to stand on tiptoe and _reach_ to do it gracefully – immediately stepped back a pace, and dropped to kneeling again. Baurus followed, and in the wake of his dropping to one knee Chancellor Ocato made the announcement, _deka-daka-deka_ (_you_ sit with the Council in meetings for a week and see how much waffle you learn to ignore) we have an Emperor again.

Sound exploded as Martin deftly and discreetly nudged his foot forward until he found my knee with it – hey, that works too – then reached down, unerringly finding my shoulder, the cue for me to get back up. However, as I stood his hand slid down my arm, to find my fingers. Under the cover of the noise of cheering subjects (I swear I can pick out the distinctive whoops of my brothers) I heard him murmur, "It's finished."

"It's finished." I agreed, letting my hand slip free of his. The slow way our fingers uncoiled at the end of a gesture most people would take for granted spoke loudly of the fact neither one of us wanted to let go of the small assurance of the other's presence.

With this, Ocato swept over and shepherded Martin towards the Palace, followed by Baurus, myself, and the rest of the entourage. Actually, now that the coronation is over, my usefulness is about done. Nothing much I can do now – the Elder Council's not convening. Looking down at my chainmail and costume I frowned.

I'm going to change into something else. If he wants me…he'll ask. I understand he and Ocato will be busy settling things down and getting Martin groomed for his new post.

Still, it feels vaguely like the chill of abandonment, the moment you realize you're wholly and completely alone.

But he's alive. It's what I wanted. How often in life do we actually _get_ the things we really want?

--A--

"He wants to see you…wow." Cyrus blinked, stepping into the small library near my quarters later in the afternoon of the coronation.

"It's not too low-cut?" I asked, feeling awkward. I've worn this dress before, but still. I feel _very_ awkward in it _now_. I'm more worried about the fact my face is still pink. I got back to my room after the coronation and unaccountably burst into tears. I'm just glad to know this isn't some weird dream. If it were, I'd have woken up before the coronation finished.

Or Mehrunes Dagon's gigantic foot would have descended from the sky and crushed everyone to goo before it finished.

"You look like a _lady_," Cyrus assured, and offered me his arm as if he'd never seen me before in his life – much less saw me lopping off heads, shouting or screaming like a maniac. "Um…can I ask?"

I fingered the strand of pearls, heavy as guilt around my neck, warm as living flesh, before my hand slipped down to my bodice, where Martin's amulet lay safe beneath the ivory satin. "Certain things are expected of a Countess, even if they are waived for friends. Besides, I like this dress." I do – but I never realized…I know Martin won't see it, the way I or anyone else can – with eyes. But he'll _perceive_ things.

I know for him it was only a good night's sleep. But for me it was six months, and that leaves me in a very awkward position. I don't know where I stand. I'm afraid to guess lest I turn out wrong. I've heard stories of people who are supposedly dead and come back, that they come back _changed_. I don't see hints of this yet, but the fear remains.

Cyrus walked me to the main library, opened the door and ushered me in with a quiet announcement 'she's here' before shutting the door. Walking over to Martin, sitting with his back to a window, I stopped just out of reach, watching his expression crumple into surprised incredulity.

"You're wearing a dress."

A nice dress. "I am." I had to smile, a feeble smile, rusty from disuse. Still, it's more than I've managed these past six months, even if it made me want to start crying again. Damn irrationality…

Martin's eyebrows knit together thoughtfully. "What color is it?"

"Ivory." I clasped my hands behind my back, so as not to bite my nails. Martin rose, his hand finding my shoulder. "Go ahead." I breathed.

His fingers slipped along the collar, then down an arm, tracing the shape of the gown.

"Ivory, did you say?" His hand returned up my arm, running over the pearls, which he fingered for moment before cupping my cheek in his hand.

"Yes. It…it doesn't clash with my hair." I offered lamely. The nearly irresistible urge to cry, and run away rather than risk any deeper hurt seized me so powerfully I thought for a moment it _was _irresistible. Except my feet refused to work properly, so I stood my ground.

Martin didn't say anything for a moment, as if he knew his simply coming back did not mean I was healed of heartbreak, instantly as if by magicka. In fact, in some ways, this past week has been far more difficult than any other, including the first few, when I was so freshly wounded. "I once told you," Martin murmured, "that every knight needed a squire. And you told me not to make a promise I might not be able to keep."

I closed my eyes, the last infinitesimal slit of vision obscured by hazy tears, one of which slipped down my cheek – thankfully on the cheek not occupied by Martin's hand. Yes, I do remember that.

"Will you let me say it now?" His other hand came to rest on my other cheek, flinching as he found the tear tracks, before brushing his thumbs across my eyes to clear the tears.

"I am not the same woman you knew," I couldn't keep the thickness out of my voice, but I can't lie to him. Even by omission. And it hurts, because these are words I so desperately want to hear. "I'm broken…" It cost me more to admit this truth than to shoulder the responsibilities cast by destiny. But true it is - I'm not the bouncy redhead anymore. I'm just…the redhead…and it was as if someone took Mehrunes' Razor and jammed it into my heart.

Like I did to Umaril, only less literally.

Martin, however, didn't sigh in exasperation, or anything else. He merely took another moment to brush away tears, before leaning close enough that I could feel his breath caress my face. "That only means," he said reassuringly, so softly no one else would have heard, if they had stood in the room, "that it will be my greatest pleasure, to find the breaks," he placed a not quite teasing kiss against my lips, but one which did not linger, "and mend them," the next lasted a little longer, "and put you back together." This kiss lingered, lingered until I shoved aside selfless notions and kissed him back, almost desperately. My wordless assent.

True desperation would of course, have meant letting my Dremoraish leanings have their way: shoving him back on that chair, climbing up in his lap and kissing him senseless, for starters. Doesn't sound like such a bad idea, but if someone were to get past Cyrus it could be awkward.

I didn't hear the words, just Cyrus' voice, following a tap at the door. Go away, I'm busy. Martin drew back when Cyrus repeated the question. "Marry me?" He made it a question, ignoring the people behind the door.

"Yes." I craned to kiss him again. Memory is so pale compared to the living reality.

"When?" He asked, practically, as soon as he _could _ask.

"Tomorrow. Today." There's a future for _us_. Together. There's no such time as 'too soon'. "Though I suppose Ocato…" Yes, Ocato will want a little more formalities and a lot more decorum. And fancy parties...I hate fancy parties...but if we're _both_ there...it could get interesting.

"Your Highness, Countess?" Cyrus cracked the door, leaning towards it, speaking very loudly. "The Chancellor would like to see you."

"I'll bet he would." I murmured, a ghost of a grin touching my features, fading less quickly than ever before.

"Thank you, Cyrus. Send him in," Martin answered, though looked a little irritated at the interruption.

So am I, truth be told.

"We need to talk to him anyway," Martin finished quietly, his hand twisting around mine, as if he never meant to let it go.

I nodded, forgetting he couldn't see the gesture, feeling a genuine smile lighting up my face. I don't think anything we say will surprise Ocato...but the rest of the Elder Council...I don't think they'll take the news so well. But that's okay. If they don't like it...

...they can quit.

--A--

THE END

I want to thank all you readers and especially you reviewers for sticking with this story. You're fantastic motivators. ^_^

See you next project,

~Raven Studios


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